The gambler, and other stories

Constance Garndt Trans.

PG "

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY

Cornell University Library
PG3326.I4G23 1914

The gambler, and other stories.Tr. from t

3 1924 014 422 020

THE GAMBLER

AND OTHER STORIES

THE NOVELS OF FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Translated from the Russian by CONSTANCE
GARNETT, Crown 8vo,

THE BROTHERS KARAUAZOV

THE IDIOT

THE POSSESSED

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

THE INSULTED AND INJURED

A RAW YOUTH

THE ETERNAL HUSBAND

THE GAMBLER AND OTHER STORIES

WHITE NIGHTS

AN HONEST THIEF

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

THE

AND OTHER STORIES

Translated from
the Russian by

CONSTANCE GARNETT

M.

URIS LIBRARY

WILLIAM HEINEMANN-LTD
MELBOURNE :: LONDON :: Toronto

FIRST PUBLISHBD I914
NEW IMPRESSIONS 1916, iqi7,

1919, 1922, 1923, 1949, 1950

1957

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

AT THE WINDMILL PRESS

KINGSWOOD, SURREY

CONTENTS

PAGE
THE GAMBLER I

POOR PEOPLE 133

THE LANDLADY 248

Cornell University
Library

The original of tliis bool< is in
tine Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014422020

THE GAMBLER

A NOVEL
{From the dtany of a youMg man)

CHAPTER I

AT last I have come back from my fortnight's absence. Our
friends have already been two days in Roulettenburg. I
imagined that they were expecting me with the greatest eager-
ness; I was mistaken, however. TTie General had an extremely
independent air, he talked to me condescendingly and sent me
away to his sister. I even fancied that the General was a little
ashamed to look at me. Marya Filippovna was tremendously
-busy and scarcely spoke to me; she took the money, however,
counted it, and listened to my whole report. They were expect-
ing Mezentsov, the little Frenchman, and some Englishman;
as usual, as soon as there was money there was a dinner-party;
in the Moscow style. Polina Alexandrovna, seeing me, asked
why I had been away so long, and without waiting for
an answer went off somewhere. Of course, she did that on
purpose. We must have an explanation, though. Things have
accimiulated.

They had assigned me a little room on the fourth storey of the
hotel. They know here that I belong to the Genercd's state. It
all looks as though they had managed to impress the people.
The General is looked upon by everyone here as a very rich
Russian grandee. Even before dinner he commissioned me,
among other things, to change two notes for a thousand francs
each. I changed them at the office of the hotel. Now we
shall be looked upon as millionaires for a whole week, at least.
I wanted to take Misha and Nadya out for a walk, but on the
stairs I was summoned back to the General; he had graciously
bethought him to inquire where I was taking them. The man
is absolutely imable to look me straight in the face; he would
like to very much, but every time I meet his eyes with an
intent, that is, disrespectful air, he seems overcome with
embarrassment. In very bombastic language, piling one
sentence on another, and at last losing his thread altogether, he
gave me to understand that I was to take the children for a walk

in the park, as far as possible from the Casino. At last he lost
his temper completely, and added sharply: "Or else maybe
you'll be taking them into the gambling saloon. You must
excuse me," he added, "but I know you are still rather
thoughtless and capable, perhaps, of gambling. In any case,
though, I am not your mentor and have no desire to be, yet I
have the right, at any rate, to desire that you will not com-
promise me, so to speak . . ."

"But I have no money," I said cahnly; "one must have it
before one can lose it."

"You shall have it at once," answered the General, flushing
a little; he runmiaged in his bureau, looked up in an account
book, and it tumai out that he had a hundred and twenty
roubles owing me.

"How are we to settle up?" he said. "We must change it
into thalers. Come, take a himdred thalers — the rest, of course,
won't be lost."

I took the money without a word.

"Please don't be offended by my words, you are so ready to
take offence. ... If I did make an observation, it was only,
so to speak, by way of warning, and, of course, I have some
right to do so. . . ."

On my way home before dinner, with the children, I met
a perfect cavalcade. Our party had driven out to look at
some ruin. Two magnificent carriages, sup>erb horses 1 In one
carriage was Mile. Blanche with Marya Filippovna and PoUna;
the Frenchman, the Englishman and our General were on
horseback. The passers-by stopped and stared; a sensation was
created; but the General will have a bad time, all the same.
I calculated that with the four thousand francs I had brought,
added to what they had evidently managed to get hold of, they
had now seven or eight thousand francs; but that is not aiough
for Mile. Blanche.

Mile. Blanche, too, is staying at the hotel with her mother;
our Frenchman is somewhere in the house, too. The footman
calls him "Monsieur le Comte." Mile. Blanche's mother is
called "Madame la Comtesse"; well, who knows, they may be
Comte and Comtesse.

I felt sure that M. le Comte would not recognise me when we
assembled at dinner. The General, of course, would not have
thought of introducing us or even saying a word to him on my
behalf; and M. le Comte has been in Russia himself, and knows
what is called an outchitel is very small fry. He knows me very

2

well, however. But I must vionfess I made my appearance at
dinner unbidden; I fancy the General forgot to give orders, or
else he would certainly have sent me to dine at the table d'hote.
I came of my own accord, so that the General looked at me with
astonishment. Kind-hearted Marya Filippovna immediately
made a place for me; but my meeting with Mr. Astley saved the
situation, and I could not help seeming to belong to the party.

I met this strange Enghshman for the first time in the
train in Prussia, where we sat opposite to one another, when I
was traveUing to join the family; then I came across him as I
was going into France, and then again in Switzerland : in the
course of that fortnight twice — and now I suddenly met him in
Roulettenburg. I never met a man so shy in my life. He is
stupidly shy and, of course, is aware of it himself, for he is by '
no means stupid. He is very sweet and gentle, however.- I
drew him into talk at our first meeting in Prussia. He told me
that he had been that summer at North Cape, and that he was
very anxious to visit the fair at Nizhni Novgorod. I don't
know how he made acquaintance with the General; I believe
that he is hopelessly in love with Polina. When she came in
he glowed like a sunset. He was very glad that I was sitting
beside him at the table and seemed already to look upon me
as his bosom friend.

At dinner the Frenchman gave himself airs in an extra-
ordinary way; he was nonchalant and majestic with everyone.
In Moscow, I remember, he used to blow soap bubbles. He
talked a great deal about finance and Russian poUtics. The
General sometimes ventured to contradict, but discreetly, and
only so far as he could without too great loss of dignity.

I was in a strange mood; of coturse, before we were half
through dinner I had asked myself my usual invariable ques-
tion: "Why I went on dcindng attendance on this General,
and had not left them long ago? " From time to time I glanced
at Polina Alexandrovna. She took no notice of me whatever.
It ended by my flying into a rage and making up my mind to
be rude.

I began by suddenly, apropos of nothing, breaking in on the
conversation in a loud voice. What I longed to do above edl
things was to be abusive to the Frenchman. I turned round to
the General and very loudly and distinctly, I believe, inter-
rupted him. I observed that this summer it was utterly
impossible for a Russian to dine at table d'hote. The General
turned upon me an astonished stare.

3 **

"Tf you are a self-respecting man," I went on, "you will
certainly be inviting abuse and must put up with affronts to
your dignity. In Paris, on the Rhine, even in Switzerland,
there are so many little Poles, and French people who
sympathise with them, that there's no chance for a Russian to
utter a word."

I spoke in French. The General looked at me in amazement.
I don't know whether he was angry or simply astonished at my
so forgetting myself.

"It seems someone gave you a lesson," said the Frenchman
carelessly and contemptuously.

"I had a row for the first time with a Pole in Paris," I
answered ;"then with a French officer who took the Pole's
part. And then some of the French came over to my
side when I told them how I tried to spit in Monseigneur's
coffee."

"Spit?" asked the General, with dignified perplexity, and he
even looked about him aghast.

The Frenchman scanned me mistrustfully.

"Just so," I answered. "After feeling convinced for two
whole days that I might have to pay a brief visit to Rome about
our business, I went to the oflB.ce of the Papal Embassy to get
my passport viseed. There I was met by a little abb6, a dried-
up httle man of about fifty, with a frost-bitten expression.
After listening to me politely, but extremely dryly, he asked me
to wait a little. Though I was in a hurry, of course I sat down
to wait, and took up UOpimon Naiionale and began reading
a horribly abusive attack on Russia. Meanwhile, I heard some-
one in the next room ask to see Monseigneur; I saw my abb6
bow to him. I addressed the same request to him again; he
asked me to wait — ^more dryly than ever. A Uttle later someone
else entered, a stranger, but on business, some Austrian; he was
listened to jmd at once conducted upstairs. Then I felt very
much vexed; I got up, went to the abb6 and said resolutely
that as Monseigneur was receiving, he might settle my business,
too. At once the ahhi drew back in great surprise. It was
beyond his comprehension that an insignificant Russian should
dare to put himself on a level with Monseigneur's guests. As
though delighted to have an opportunity of insulting me, he
looked me up and down, and shouted in the most insolent tone :
'Can you really suppose that Monseigneur is going to leave his
coffee on your account?' Then I shouted, too, but more loudly
than he: 'Let me tell you I'm ready to spit in your Mon-

seigneur's coffee! If you don't finish with my passport this
minute, I'll go to him in person.'

" 'What! When the Cardinal is sitting with him!' cried the
abb^, recoiling from me with horror, and, flinging wide his
arms, he stood like a cross, with an air of being ready to die
rather than let me pass.

"Then I answered him that 'I was a heretic and a barbarian,
que je sms hereUque et barbare,' and that I cared nothing for
all these Archbishops, Cardinals, Monseigneurs and all of them.
In short, I showed I was not going to give way. The abbe
looked at me with uneasy ill-humour, then snatched my
passport and carried it upstairs. A minute later it had been
viseed,. Here, wouldn't you like to see it?" I took out the
f)assp)ort and showed the Roman vise.

"Well, I must say . . ." the General began.

"What saved you was sajdng that you were a heretic and
barbarian," the Frenchman observed, with a smile. "Cela
n'etait pas si bite."

"Why, am I to model myself upon our Russians here? They
sit, not daring to open their lips, and almost ready to deny they
are Russians. In Paris, anyway in my hotel, they began to
treat me much more attentively when I told everyone about my
passage-at-arms with the abbe. The fat Polish pcm, the person
most emtagonistic to me at table d'hote, sank into the back-
ground. The Frenchmen did not even resent it when I told
them that I had, two years previously, seen a man at whom, in
1812, a French chasseur had shot simply in order to discharge
his gun. The man was at that time a child of ten, and his family
had not succeeded in leaving Moscow.

"That's impossible," the Frenchman boiled up; "a French
soldier would not fire at a child!"

"Yet it happened," I smswered. "I was told it by a most
respectable captain on the retired list, and I saw the scar on
his cheek from the bullet myself."

The Frenchman began talking rapidly and at great length.
The General began to support him, but I recommended him to
read, for instance, passages in the "Notes" of General Perov-
sky, who was a prisoner in the hands of the French in 1812.
At last Maiya FiUppovna began talking of something else to
change the conversation. The General was very much dis-
pleased with me, for the Frenchman and I had almost begun
shouting at one another. But I fancy my dispute with the
Frenchman pleased Mr. Astley very much. Getting up from

5

the table, he asked me to have a glass of wine with him.

In the evening I duly succeeded in getting a quarter of an
hour's talk with Polina Alexandrovna. Our conversation took
place when we were all out for a walk. We all went into the
park by the Casino. Polina sat down on a seat facing the
fountain, and let Nadenka play with some children not far from
her. I, too, let Misha run off to the fountain, and we were at
last left alone.

We began, of course, at first with business. Polina simply
flew into a rage when I gave her only seven hundred guldens.
She had reckoned positively on my pawning her diamonds in
Paris for two thousand guldens, if not more.

"I must have money, come what may," she said. "I must
get it or I am lost."

I began asking her what had happened during my absence.

"Nothing, but the arrival of two pieces of news from Peters-
burg : first that Granny was very ill, and then, two days later,
that she seemed to be dying. The news came from Timofey
Petrovitch," added Polina, "and he's a trustworthy man. We
are expecting every day to hear news of the end."

"So you are all in suspense here?" I asked.

"Of course, all of us, and all the time; we've been hoping for
nothing else for the last six months."

"And are you hoping for it?" I asked.

"Why, I'm no relation. I am only the General's step-
daughter. But I am sure she will remember me in her
will."

"I fancy you'll get a great deal," I said emphatically.

"Yes, she was fond of me; but what makes you think so?"

"Tell me," I answered with a question, "our marqtds is
initiated into all our secrets, it seems?"

"But why are you interested in that?" asked Polina, looking
at me dryly and austerely.

"I should think so; if I'm not mistaken, the General has
already succeeded in borrowing from him."

"You guess very correctly."

"Well, would he have lent the money if he had not known
about your 'granny'? Did you notice at dinner, three times
speaking of her, he called her 'granny'. What intimate and
friendly relations ! "

"Yes, you are right. As soon as he knows that I have come
into something by the will, he will pay his addresses to me at
once. That is what you wanted to know, was it?"

6

"He will only begin to pay you his addresses? I thought he
had been doing that for a long time."

"You know perfectly well that he hasn't I " Polina said, with
anger. "Where did you meet the Enghshman?" she added,
after a minute's silence.

"I knew you would ask about him directly."

I told her of my previous meetings with Mr. Astley on my
journey.

"He is shy and given to falling in love, and, of course, he's
fallen in love with you already."

"Yes, he's in love with me," answered Polina.

"And, of course, he's ten times as rich as the Frenchman.
Why, is it certain that the Frenchman has anything? Isn't
that open to doubt?"

"No, it is not. He has a chiteau of some sort. The General
has spoken of that positively. Well, are you satisfied?"

"If I were in your place I should certainly marry the
Englishman."

"Why?" asked Polina.

"The Frenchman is better looking, but he is nastierjand the
Englishman, besides bdng honest, is ten times as rich," I
snapped out.

"Yes, but on the other hand, the Frenchman is a marquis
and clever," she answered, in the most composed manner.

"But is it true?" I went on, in the same way.

"It certainly is."

Polina greatiy disliked my questions, and I saw that she was
trying to make me angry by her tone and the strangeness of her
answers. I said as much to her at once.

"Well, it really amuses me to see you in such a rage. You
must pay for the very fact of my allowing you to ask such
questions and make such suppositions."

"I certainly consider myself entitled to ask you any sort of
question," I answered calmly, "just because I am prepared to
pay any price you like for it, and I set no value at all on my
life now."

Polina laughed.

"You told me last time at the Schlangenberg that you were
prepared, at a word from me, to throw yourself head foremost
from the rock, and it is a thousand feet high, I believe. Some
day I shall utter that word, solely in order to see how you will
pay the price, and, trust me, I won't give way. You are hateful
to me, just because I've allowed you to take such Uberties, and

even more hateful because you are so necessary to me. But so
long as you are necessary to me, I must take care of you.'

She began getting up. She spoke with irritation. Of late
she had always ended every conversation with me in anger and
irritation, real anger.

"Allow me to ask you, what about Mile. Blanche?" I asked,
not liking to let her go without explanation.

"You know all about Mile. Blanche. Nothing more has
happened since. MUe. Blanche will, no doubt, be Madame la
Generate, that is, if the rumour of Granny's death is confirmed,
of course, for MUe. Blanche and her mother and her cousin
twice removed — ^the Marquis — all know very well that we are
ruined."

"And is the General hopelessly in love?"

"That's not the point now. Listen and remember: take
these seven hundred florins and go and play. Win me as much
as you can at roulette; I must have money now, come what
may."

Saying this, she called Nadenka and went into the Casino,
where she joined the rest of the party. I turned into the first
path to the left, wondering and reflecting. I felt as though I
had had a blow on the head after the command to go and play
roulette. Strange to say, I had plenty to think about, but I
was completely absorbed in analysing the essential nature of
my feeling towards Polina. It was true I had been more at
ease during that fortnight's absence that I was now on the day
of my return, though on the journey I had been as melancholy
and restless as a madman, and at moments had even seen her in
my dreams. Once, waking "up in the train (in Switzerland), I
began talking aloud, I beUeve, with PoUna, which amused all
the passengers in the carriage with me. And once more now I
asked myself the question: "Do I love her?" and again I
could not answer it, or, rather, I answered for the hundredth
time that I hated her. Yes, she was hateful to me. There
were moments (on every occasion at the end of our talks) when
I would have given my Ufe to strangle her! I swear if it had
been possible on the spot to plunge a sharp knife in her bosom,
I believe I should have snatched it up with relish. And yet
I swear by all that's sacred that if at the Schlangenberg, at
the fashionable peak, she really had said to me, "Throw your-
self down," I should have thrown mj^elf down at once, also
with positive relish. I knew that. In one way or another it
must be settled. All this she understood wonderfully well, and

8

the idea that I knew, positively and distinctly, how utterly
beyond my reach she was, how utterly impossible my mad
dreams were of fulfilment — ^that thought, I am convinced,
afforded her extraordinary satisfaction; if not, how could she,
cautious and intelligent as she was, have been on such intimate
cind open terms with me? I believe she had hitherto looked on
me as that empress of ancient times looked on the slave before
whom she did not mind undressing because she did not regard
him as a human being. Yes, often she did not regard me as a
human being!

I had her commission, however, to win at roulette, at all
costs. I had no time to consider why must I play, and why
such haste, and what new scheme was hatching in that ever-
calculating brain. Moreover, it was evident that during that
fortnight new facts had arisen of which I had no idea yet. I
must discover all that and get to the bottom of it and as
quickly as possible. But there was no time now; I must go
to roulette.

CHAPTER II

I CONFESS it was disagreeable to me. Though I had made
up my mind that I would play, I had not proposed to play
for other people. It rather threw me out of my reckoning, and I
went into the gambling saloon with very disagreeable feelings.
From the first glance I disHked eveiything in it. I cannot
endure the flunkeyishness of the newspapers of the whole world,
and especially our Russian papers, in which, almost every
spring, the joumaUsts write articles upon two things: first, on
the extraordinary magnificence and luxury of the gambling
saloons on the Rhine, and secondly, on the heajK of gold which
are said to he on the tables. They are not paid for it; it is
simply done from disinterested obsequiousness. There was no
sort of magnificence in these trashy rooms, and not only were
there no piles of gold lying on the table, but there was hardly
any gold at all. No doubt some time, in the course of the
season, some eccentric person, either an Englishman or an
Asiatic of some sort, a Turk, perhaps (as it was that stmimer),
would suddenly turn up and lose or win immense sums; all the
others play for paltry guldens, and on an average there is very
httle money lying on the tables.

As soon as I went into the gambling saloon (for the first time
in my life), I could not for some time make up my mind to
play. There was a crush besides. If I had been alone, even
then, I believe, I should soon have gone away and not have
begun playing. I confess my heart was beating and I was not
cool. I knew for certciin, and had made up my mind long
before, that I should not leave Roulettenburg unchanged, that
some radical and fundamental change would take place in my
destiny; so it must be and so it would be. Ridiculous as it may
be that I should expect so much for myself from roulette, yet
I consider even more ridiculous the conventional opinion
accepted by all that it is stupid and absurd to expect anj^iiing
from gambling. And why should gambling be worse than any
other means of nraking money — for instance, commerce? It is
true that only one out of a hundred wins, but what is that to
me?

In any case I determined to look about me first and not to
begin anjHiiing in earnest that evening. If an}7thing did happen
that evening it would happen by chance and be sometlung
slight, and I staked my money accordingly. Besides, I had to
study the game; for, in spite of the thousand descriptions of
roulette which I had read so eagerly, I tmderstood absolutely
nothing of its working, until I saw it myself.

In the first place it all struck me as so dirty, somehow, morally
horrid and dirty. I am not speaking at all of the greedy, un-
easy faces which by dozens, even by hundreds, crowd round
the gambling tables. I see absolutely nothing dirty in the wish
to win as quickly and as much as possible. I alwa)^ thought
very stupid the answer of that fat and prosperous moralist, who
replied to someone's excuse "that he played for a very small
stake," "So much the worse, it is such petty covetousness."
As though covetousness were not exactly the same, whether on
a big scale or a petty one. It is a matter of proportion. What
is paltry to Rothschild is wealth to me, and as for profits and
winnings, people, not only at roulette, but everywhere, dp
nothing but try to gain or squeeze something out of one an-
other. Whether profits or gains are nasty is a different question,
But I am not solving that question here. Since I was m3reelf
possessed by an intense desire of winning, I felt as I went into
the hall all this covetousness, and all this covetous filth if you
like, in a sense congenial and convenient. It is most charming
when people do not stand on ceremony with one another, but
act openly and above-board. And, indeed, why deceive one-

10

self? Gambling is a most foolish and imprudent pursuit! What
was particularly ugly at first sight, in all the rabble round the
roulette table, was the respect they paid to that pursuit, the
solemnity and even reverence witii which they all crowded
round the tables. That is why a sharp distinction is drawn here
between the kind of game that is numvais genre and the kind
that is permissible to well-bred people, liiere are two sorts of
gambling: one the gentlemanly sort: the other the plebeian,
mercenary sort, the game played by all sorts of riff-raff. The
distinction is sternly observed here, and how contemptible this
distinction really is 1 A gentleman may stake, for instance, five
or ten louis d'or, rarely more; he may, however, stcike as much
as a thousand francs if he is very rich; but only for the sake
of the play, simply for amusement, that is, simply to look on
at the process of winning or of losing, but must on no account
display an interest in winning. If he wins, he may laugh aloud,
for instance; may make a remark to one of the bystanders; he
may even put down another stake, and may even double it, but
solely from curiosity, for the sake of watching and calculating
the chances, and not from the plebeian desire to win. In fact,
he must look on all gambling, roulette, tr&mte et qimrcmte, as
nothing else than a pastime got up entirely for his amusement.
He must not even suspect the greed for gain and the shifty
dodges on which the bank depends. It would be extremely
good form, too, if he should imagine that all the other gamblers,
all the rabble, trembling over a gulden, were rich men and
gentlemen like himself and were playing simply for their
diversion and amus^nent. This complete ignorance of reaUty
and iimocent view of people would be, of course, extremely
aristocratic. I have seen many mammas push forward their
daughters, innocent and elegant Misses of fifteen and sixteen,
and, giving them some gold coins, teach them how to play. The
young lady wins or loses, invariably smiles and walks away,
very well satisfied. Our General went up to the table with solid
dignity; a flunkey rushed to hand him a chair, but he ignored
the flunkey; he, very slowly and deliberately, took out his purse,
very slowly and dehberately took three hundred francs in gold
from his purse, staked them on the black, and won. He did not
pick up his winnings, but left them on the table. Black turned
up again; he didn't pick up his wiimings that time either; and
when, the third time, red turned up, he lost at once twelve
hundred francs. He walked away with a smile and kept up his
dignity. I am positive he was raging inwardly, and if the stake

II

had been two or three times as much he would not have kept
up his dignity but would have betrayed his feelings. A French-
man did, however, before my eyes, win and lose as much as
thirty thousand francs with perfect gaiety and no sign of
emotion. A real gentleman should not show excitement even if
he loses his whole fortune. Money ought to be so much below
his gentlemanly dignity as to be scarcely worth noticing. Of
course, it would have been extremely aristocratic not to notice
the sordidness of all the rabble and all the surroundings. Some-
times, however, the opposite pose is no less aristocratic — ^to
notice — ^that is, to look about one, even, perhaps, to stare
through a lorgnette at the rabble; though always taking the
rabble and the sordidness as nothing else but a diversion of a
sort, as though it were a performance got up for the amuse-
ment of gentlemen. One may be jostled in that crowd, but one
must look about one with complete conviction that one is one-
self a spectator and that one is in no sense part of it. Though,
again, to look very attentively is not quite the thing; that,
again, would not be gentlemanly because, in any case, the
spectacle does not deserve much, or close, attention. And, in
fact, few spectacles do deserve a gentleman's close attention.
And yet it seemed to me that all this was deserving of very close
attention, especially for one who had come not only to observe
it, but sincerely and genuinely reckoned himself as one of the
rabble. As for my hidden moral convictions, there is no place
for them, of course, in my present reasonings. Let that be
enough for the present. I speak to reUeve my conscience. But
I notice one thing: that of late it has become horribly repug-
nant to me to test my thoughts and actions by any moral
standard whatever. I was guided by something different . . .
The rabble certainly did play very sordidly. I am ready to
believe, indeed, that a great deal of the most ordinary thieving
goes on at the gaming table. The croupiers who sit at each end
of the table look at the stakes and reckon the winnings; they
have a great deal to do. They are rabble, too ! For the most
part they are French. However, I was watching and observ-
ing, not with the object of describing roulette. I kept a sharp
look-out for my own sake, so that I might know how to behave
in the future. I noticed, for instance, that nothing was more
common than for someone to stretch out his hand and snatch
what one had won. A dispute would begin, often an uproar,
and a nice job one would have to find witnesses and to prove
that it was one's stake I

12

At first it was all an inexplicable puzzle to me. All I could
guess and distinguish was that the stakes were on the numbers,
on odd and even, and on the colours. I made up my mind
to risk a hundred guldens of Polina Alexandrovna's money.
The thought that I was not playing for myself seemed to throw
me out of my reckoning. It was an extremely unpleasant
feeling, and I wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible. I kept
feeling that by begirming for Polina I should break my own
luck. Is it impossible to approach the gambling table without
becoming infected with superstition? I began by taking out five
friedrichs d'or (fifty gulden) and putting them on the even. The
wheel went round and thirteen turned up — I had lost. With a
sickly feeling I staked another five friedrich d'or on red, simply
in order to settle the matter and go away. Red turned up. I
staked all the ten friedrichs d'or — red turned up again. I
staked all the money again on the same, and again red turned
up. On receiving forty friedrichs d'or I staked twenty upon
the twelve middle figures, not knowing what would come of it.
I was paid three times my stake. In this way from ten friedrichs
d'or I had all at once eighty. I was overcome by a strange,
unusual feeling which was so unbearable that I made up my
mind to go away. It seemed to me that I should not have been
plajdng at all hke that if I had been playing for myself. I
staked the whole eighty friedrichs d'or, however, on even.
This time four turned up; another eighty friedrichs d'or was
poured out to me, and, gathering up the whole heap of a
hundred and sixty friedrichs d'or, I set off to find Polina
AlexEmdrovna.

They were all walking somewhere in the park and I only
succeeded in seeing her after supper. This time the Frenchman
was not of the party, and the General unbosomed himself.
Among other things he thought fit to observe to me that he
would not wish to see me at the gambling tables. It seemed to
him that it would compromise him if I were to lose too much:
"But even if you were to win a very Icirge sum I should be
compromised, too," he added significantly. "Of course, I have
no right to dictate your actions, but you must admit your-
self . . ." At this point he broke off, as his habit was. I
answered, dryly, that I had very little money, and so I could
not lose very conspicuously, even if I did play. Going upstaurs
to my room I succeeded in handing Polina her winnings, and
told her that I would not play for her another time.
"Why not?" she asked, in a tremor.

13

"Because I want to play on my own account," I answered,
looking at her with surprise; "and it hinders me."

"Then you will continue in your conviction that roulette is
your only escape and salvation?" she asked ironically.

I answered very earnestly, that I did; that as for my con-
fidence that I should win, it might be absurd; I was ready to
admit it, but that I wanted to be let alone.

Polina Alexandrovna began insisting I should go halves with
her in to-day's winnings, and was giving me eighty friedrichs
d'or, suggesting that I should go on playing on those terms.
I refused the half, positively and finally, and told her that I
could not play for other people, not because I didn't want to,
but because I should certainly lose.

"Yet I, too," she said, pondering, "stupid as it seems, am
building all my hopes on roulette. And so you must go on
playing, sharing with me, and — of course — ^you will."

At this point she walked away, without listening to further
objections.

CHAPTER III

YET all yesterday she did not say a single word to me about
playing, and avoided speaking to me altc^ether. Her
manner to me remained unchanged: the same absolute care-
lessness on meeting me; there was even a shade of contempt
and dislike. Altogether she did not care to conceal her aversion;
I noticed that. In spite of that she did not conceal from me,
either, that I was in some way necessary to her and that she
was keeping me for some purpose. A strange relation had
grown up between us, incomprehensible to me in many ways
when I considered her pride and haughtiness with everyone.
She knew, for instance, that I loved her madly, even allowed
me to speak of my passion; and, of course, she could not have
shown greater contempt for me than by allowing me to speak
of my passion without hindrance or restriction. It was as much
as to say that she thought so little of my feelings that she did
not care in the least what I talked about to her and what I felt
for hef. She had talked a great deal about her own affairs
before, but had never been completely open. What is more,
there was this peculiar refinement in her contempt for me : she

14

would know, for instance, that I was aware of some circum-
stance in her Ufe, or knew of some matter that greatly con-
cerned her, or she would tell me herself something of her cir-
cumstances, if to forward her objects she had to make use of
me in some way, as a slave or an errand-boy; but she would
alwa}re tell me only so much cis a man employed on her errands
need know, and if I did not know the whole chain of events,
if she saw herself how worried and anxious I was over her
worries and anxieties, she never deigned to comfort me by giving
me her full confidence as a friend; though she often made use
of me for commissions that were not only troublesome, but
dangerous, so that to my thinking she was bound to be open
with me. Was it worth her while, indeed, to trouble herself
about my feelings, about my being worried, and perhaps three
times as much worried and tormented by her anxieties and
failures as she was herself?

I knew of her intention to play roulette three weeks before.
She had even warned me that I should have to play for her, and
it would be improper for her to play herself. From the tone of
her words, I noticed even then that she had serious anxieties,
and was not actuated simply by a desire for money. What is
money to her for its own sake? She must have some object,
there must be some circumstance at which I can only guess, but
of which so far I have no knowledge. Df course, the humilia-
tion emd the slavery in which she held me might have made it
possible for me (it often does) to question her coarsely and
blimtly. Seeing that in her eyes I was a slave and utterly
insignificant, there was nothing for her to be offended at in my
coarse curiosity. But the fact is that though she allowed me
to ask questions, she did not answer them, and sometimes did
not notice them at all. That was the position between us.

A great deal was said yesterday about a telegram which had
been sent off four days before, and to which no answer had
been received. The General was evidently upset and pre-
occuiMed. It had, of course, something to do with Granny.
The Frenchman was troubled, too. Yesterday, for instance,
after dinner, they had a long, serious talk. The Frenchman's
tone to all of us was unusually high and mighty, quite in the
spirit of the saying: "Seat a pig at table and it will put its
feet on it." Even with Pohna he was casual to the point of
rudeness; at the same time he gladly took part in the walks in
the pubUc gardens and in the rides and drives into the country.
I had long known some of the circumstances that bound the

15

Frenchman to the General : they had made plans for establish-
ing a factory together in Russia; I don't know whether their
project had fallen through, or whether it was being discussed.
Moreover, I had by chance come to know part of a family
secret, llie Frenchman had actually, in the 7^ ■(J'^us year,
come to the General's rescue, and had given mm thirty
thousand roubles to make up a deficit of Government monies
missing when he resigned his duties. And, of course, the General
is in his grip; but now the principal person in the whole
business is Mile. Blanche; atwut that I am sure I'm not
mistaken.

What is Mile. Blanche? Here among us it is said that she
is a distinguished Frenchwoman, with a colossal fortune and a
mother accompan3dng her. It is known, too, that she is some
sort of relation of our Marquis, but a very distant one: a
cousin, or something of the sort. I am told that before I went
to Paris, the Frenchman and Mile. Blanche were on much more
ceremonious, were, so to speak, on a more delicate and
refined footing; now their acquaintance, their friendship and
relationship, was of a rather coarse and more intimate
character. Perhaps our prospects seemed to them so poor that
they did not think it very necessary to stand on ceremony and
keep up appearances with us. I noticed even the day before
yesterday how Mr. Astley looked at Mile. Blanche and her
mother. It seemed to me that he knew them. It even seemed
to me that our Frenchman had met Mr. Astley before. Mr.
Astley, however, is so shy, so reserved and silent, that one can
be almost certain of him — he won't wash dirty linen in public.
Anyway, the Frenchman barely bows to him and scarcely looks
at him, so he is not afraid of him. One can understand that,
perhaps, but why does Mile. Blanche not look at him either?
Especially when the Marquis let slip yesterday in the course of
conversation — I don't remember in what connection — ^that Mr.
Astley had a colossal fortune and that he — ^the Marquis — ^knew
this for a fact; at that point Mile. Blanche might well have
looked at Mr. Astley. Altogether the General was imeasy.
One can understand what a telegram announcing his aunt's
death would mean!

Though I felt sure Polina was, apparently for some object,
avoiding a conversation with me, I assumed a cold and in-
different air : I kept thinking that before long she would come
to me of herself. But both to-day and yesterday I concentrated
my attention principally on Mile. Blanche. Poor General! He

16

is completely done for! To fall in love at fifty-five with such
a violent passion is a calamity, of course! When one takes
into consideration the fact that he is a widower, his children,
the ruin of his estate, his debts, and, finally, the woman it is
his lot to fall in love with. Mile. Blanche is handsome. But
I don't know if I shall be understood if I say that she has a
face of the typ>e of which one might feel frightened. I, anyway,
have alwaj^ been afraid of women of that sort. She is prob-
ably five-and-twenty. She is well grown and broad, with
sloping shoulders; she has a magnificent throat and bosom;
her complexion is swarthy yellow. Her hair is as black as
Indian iiik, and she has a tremendous lot of it, enough to make
two ordinary coiffures. Her eyes are black with yellowish
whites; she has an insolent look in her eyes; her teeth are
very white; her lips are always painted; she smells of musk.
She dresses effectively, richly and with chic, but with much
taste. Her hands and feet are exquisite. Her voice is a
husky contralto. Sometimes she laughs, showing all her teeth,
but her usual expression is a silent and impudent stare —
before Polina and Marya Filippovna, anyway (there is a
strange rumour that Maiya Filippovna is going back to Russia).
I fancy that Mile. Blanche has had no sort of education.
Possibly she is not even intelligent; but, on the other hand, she
is striking and she is artful. I fancy her life has not passed
without adventures. If one is to tell the whole truth, it is quite
possible that the Marquis is no relation of hers at all, and that
her mother is not her mother. But there is evidence that in
Berlin, where we went with them, her mother and she had some
decent acquaintances. As for the Marquis himself, though I
still doubt his being a marquis, yet the fact that he is received
in decent society — among Russians, for instance, in Moscow,
and in some places in Germany — is not open to doubt. I don't
know what he is in France. The say he has a chateau.

I thought that a great deal would have happened during this
fortnight, and yet I don't know if an3rthing decisive has been
said between Mile. Blanche and the General. Ever3^thing
depends on our fortune, however; that is, whether the General
can show them plenty of money. If, for instance, news were
to come that Granny were not dead, I am convinced that Mile.
Blanche would vanish at once. It surprises and amuses me
to see what a gossip I've become. Oh! how I loathe it all!
How delighted I should be to drop it all, and them all ! But
can I leave Polina, can I give up sp3nng round her? ^ying,

17

of course, is low, but what do I care about that?

I was interested in Mr. Astley, too, to-day and yesterday.
Yes, I am convinced he's in love with Polina. It is curious and
absurd how much may be expressed by the eyes of a modest
and painfully chaste man, moved by love, at the very time
when the man would gladly sink into the earth rather than
express or betray anything l^ word or glance. Mr. Astley very
often meets us on our walks. He takes off his hat and peisses
by, though, of course, he is dying to join us. If he is invited
to do so, he immediately refuses. At places where we rest —
at the Casino, by the tondstand, or before the fountain — ^he
always stands somewhere not fcir from our seat; and wherever
we may be — in the park, in the wood, or on the SchlEingenberg
— one has only to glance round, to look about one, and some-
where, either in the nearest path or behind the bushes, Mr.
Astley's head appears. I fancy he is looking for an opportunity
to have a conversation with me apart. This morning we met
and exchanged a couple of words. He sometimes speaks very
abruptly. Without saying "good-morning," he began by blurt-
ing out'.

"Oh, Mile. Blanche! ... I have seen a great many women
hkeMlle. Blanche I"

He paused, looking at me significantly. What he meant to
say by that I don't know. For on my asking what he meant,
he shook his head with a sly smile, and added, "Oh, well.
that's how it is. Is Mile. Pauline very fond of flowers? "

"I don't know; I don't know at all," I answered.

"What? You don't even know that!" he cried, with the
utmost amazement.

"I don't know; I haven't noticed at all," I repeated,
laughing.

"H'm! That gives me a queer idea."

Then he shook his head and walked away. He looked
pleased, though. We talked the most awful French together.

CHAPTER IV

TO-DAY has been an absurd, grotesque, ridiculous day.
Now it is eleven o'clock at night. I am sitting in my little
cupboard of a room, recalling it. It began with my having to
go to roulette to play for Pohna Alexandrovna. I took the

i8

hundred and sixty friedrichs d'or, but on two conditions: first,
that I would not go halves — that is, if I won I would take
nothing for myself; and secondly, that in the evening Pofina
should explain to me why she needed to win, and how much
money. I can't, in any case, suppose that it is simply for the
sake of money. Evidently the money is needed, and as quickly
as possible, for some particular object. She promised to explain,
and I set off. In the gambling hall the crowd was awful. How
insolent and how greedy they all were ! I forced my way into
the middle and stood near lie croupier; then I began timidly
experimenting, staking two or three coins at a time. Mean-
while, I kept quiet and looked on; it seemed to me that calcula-
tion meant very little, and had by no means the importance
attributed to it by some players. They sit with papers before
them scrawled over in pencil, note the strokes, reckon, deduce
the chances, calculate, finally stake and — -lose exactly as we
simple mortals who play without calculations. On the other
hand, I drew one conclusion which I believe to be correct:
that is, though there is no system, there really is a sort of
order in the sequence of casual chances — and that, of course,
is very strange. For instance, it happens that after the twelve
middle numbers come the twelve later numbers; twice, for
instance, it turns up on the twelve last numbers and passes
to the twelve first numbers. After falling on the twelve first
numbers, it passes again to numbers in the middle third, turns
up three or four times in succession on niunbers between
thirteen and twenty-four, and again passes to numbers in the
last third; then, after turning up two numbers between twenty-
five and thirty-six, it passes to a number among the first twelve,
turns up once again on a number among the first third, and
again passes for three strokes in succession to the middle
numbers, and in that way goes on for an hour and a half or
two hours. One, three and two — one, three and two. It's very
amusing. One day or one morning, for instance, red will be
followed by black and back again almost without any order,
shifting every minute, so that it never turns up red or black
for more than two or three strokes in succession. Another day,
or another evening, there wiU be nothing but red over and over
again, turning up, for instance, more than twenty-two times
in succession, and so for a whole day. A great deal of this was
explained to me by Mr. Astley, who spent the whole morning
at the tables, but did not once put down a stake.
As for me, I lost every farthing very quickly. I staked

19

straight off twenty mednchs d'or on even and won, staked
again and again won, and went on like that two or three times.
I imagine I must have had about four hundred friedrichs d'or
in my hands in about five minutes. At that point I ought to
have gone awav, but a strange sensation rose up in me, a
sort of defiance "of fate, a desire to challenge it, to put out my
tongue at it. I laid down the largest stake allowed— four
thousand gulden—and lost it. Then, getting hot, I pulled out
all I had left, staked it on the same number, and lost again,
after which I walked away from the table as though I were
stunned. I could not even grasp what had happened to me,
and did not tell Polina Alexandrovna of my losing till just
before dinner. I spent the rest of the day sauntering in the
park.

At dinner I was again in an excited state, just as I had been
three days before. The Frenchman and Mile. Blanche were
dining with us again. It appeared that Mile. Blanche had been
in the gambling hall that morning and had witnessed my
exploits. This time she addressed me, it seemed, somewhat
attentively. The Frenchman set to work more directly, and
asked me: Was it my own money I had lost? I fancy he
suspects Polina. In fact, there is something behind it. I Ued at
once and said it was.

The General was extremely surprised. Where had I got such
a sum? I explained that I had begun with ten friedrichs d'or,
that after six or seven times staging successfully on equal
chances I had five or six hundred gulden, and that afterwards
I had lost it all on two turns.

All that, of course, soimded probable. As I explained this I
looked at Polina, but I could distinguish nothing from her face.
She let me lie, however, and did not set it right; from this I
concluded that I had to lie and conceal that I was in collabora-
tion with her. In any case, I thought to myself, she is bound
to give me an explanation, and promised me this morning to
reveal something.

I expected the General would have made some remark to me,
but he remained mute; I noticed, however, signs of disturbance
and uneasiness in his face. Possibly in his straitened circum-
stances it was simply painful to him to hear that such a pile of
gold had come into, and within a quarter of an hour had passed
out of, the hands of such a reckless fool as me.

I suspect that he had a rather hot encounter with the French-
man yesterday. They were shut up together talking for a long

20

time. The Frenchman went away seeming irritated, and came
to see the General again early this morning — ^probably to con-
tinue the conversation of the previous day.

Hearing what I had lost, the Frenchman observed bitingly,
even spitefully, that one ought to have more sense. He added —
I don't know why — ^that though a great many Russians gamble,
Russians were not, in his opinion, well qualified even for
gambling.

"To my mind," said I, "roulette is simply made for
Russians."

And when at my challenge the Frenchman laughed con-
temptuously, I observed that I was, of course, right, for to
speak of the Russians as gamblers was abusing them far more
them praising them, and so I might be believed.

"On what do you base your opinion?" asked the French-
man.

"On the fact that the faculty of amassing capital has, with
the progress of history, taken a place — and almost the foremost
place — cunong the virtues and merits of the civilised man of the
West. The Russian is not only incapable of amassing capital,
but dissip>ates it in a reckless and unseemly way. Nevertheless
we Russians need money, too," I added, "and consequently we
are veiy glad and very eager to make use of such means as
roulette, for instance, in which one can grow rich all at once, in
two hours, without work. That's very fascinating to us; and
since we play badly, recklessly, without taking trouble, we
usually lose!"

"That's partly true," observed the Frenchmsm com-
placently.

"No, it is not true, and you ought to be ashamed to speak
like that of your country," observed the General, sternly and
impressively.

"Excuse me," I answered. "I really don't know which is
more disgusting: Russian unseemliness or the German faculty
of accumulation by honest toil."

"What an unseemly idea!" exclaimed the General.

"What a Russian idea!" exclaimed the Frenchman.

I laughed; I had an intense desire to provoke them.

"Well, I should prefer to dwell all my life in a Kirgiz tent,"
I cried, "than bow down to the German idol."

"What idol?" cried the General, beginning to be angry in
earnest.

"The German faculty for accumulating wealth. I've not

21

been here long, but yet all I have been able to observe and
verify revolts my Tatar blood. My God I I don't want any
such virtue I I succeeded yesterday in making a round of eight
miles, and it's all exactly as in the edifying German picture-
books: there is here in every house a vcder horribly virtuous
and extraordinarily honest-— so honest that you are afraid to go
near him. I can't endure honest people whom one is afraid to
go near. Every such German x/ater has a family, and in the
evening they read improving books aloud. Elms and chestnut
trees rustle over the house. The sun is setting; there is a stork
on the roof, and everything is extraordinarily practical and
touching. . . . Don't be angry. General; let me teU it in a
touching style. I remember how my father used to read similar
books to my mother and me under the lime trees in the garden.
... So I am in a position to judge. And in what comjdete
bondage and submission every such family is here. They all
work like oxen and all save money like Jews. Suppose the
u/jifey has saved up so many gulden and is reckoning on giving •
his son a trade or a bit of land; to do so, he gives his daughter
no dowry, and she becomes an old maid. To do so, the youngest
son is sold into bondage or into the army, and the money is
added to the family capital. This is actually done here; I've
been making inquiries. All this is done from nothing but
honesty, from such intense honesty that the younger son who is
sold believes that he is sold from nothing but honesty: and
that is the ideal when the victim himself rejoices at being led
to the sacrifice. What more? Why, the elder son is no better
off: he has an Amalia and their hearts are united, but they
can't be married because the pile of gulden is not large enough.
They, too, wait with perfect morality and good faith, and go
to lixe sacrifice with a smile. Amalia's cheeks grow thin and
hollow. At last, in twenty years, their prosperity is increased;
the gulden have been honestly and virtuously accumulating.
The voter gives his blessing to the forty-year-old son and his
Amalia of tiiirty-five, whose chest has grown hollow and whose
nose has turned red. . . . With that he weeps, reads them
a moral sermon, and dies. The eldest son becomes himself a
virtuous ifoter and begins the same story over again. In that
way, in fifty or seventy years, the grandson of tiie first vater
really has a considerable capital, and he leaves it to his son,
and he to his, and he to his, till in five or six generations one
of them is a Baron Rothschild or goodness knows who. Come,
isn't that a majestic spectacle? A hundred or two hundred

22

years of continuous toil, patience, intelligence, honesty,
character, determination, prudence, the stork on the roofl
What more do you want? Why, there's nothing loftier than
that; and from that standpoint they are beginning to judge
the whole world and to punish the guilty; that is, any who
are ever so Uttle imlike them. Well, so tiiat's the point: I
would rather waste my substance in liie Russian style or grow
rich at roulette. I don't care to be Goppe and Co. in five
generations. I want money for myself, and I don't look upon
myself as something subordinate to capital and necessary to
it. I know that I have been talking awful nonsense, but, never
mind, such are my convictions."

"I don't know whether there is much truth in what you have
been saying," said the General thoughtfully, "but I do know
you begin to give yourself insufferable airs as soon as you are
permitted to forget yourself in the least ..."

As his habit was, he broke off without finishing. If our
, General began to speak of anything in the slightest degree more
important than his ordinary everyday conversation, he never
finished his sentences. The Frenchman Ustened carelessly with
rather wide-open eyes; he had scarcely understood anything
of what I had said. Polina gazed with haughty indifference.
She seemed not to hear my words, or anything else that was
said that day af table.

CHAPTER V

SHE was unusually thoughtful, but directly we got up from
table she bade me escort her for a walk. We took the
children and went into the park towards the fountain.

As I felt particularly excited, I blurted out the crude and
stupid question : why the Marquis de Grieux, our Frenchman,
no longer escorted her when she went out anywhere, and did
not even speak to her for days together.

"Because he is a rascal," she answered me strangely.

I had never heard her speak like that of De Grieux, and I
received it in silence, afraid to interpret her irritability.

"Have you noticed that he is not on good terms with the
General to-day?"

"You want to know what is the matter?" she answered

23

dryly and irritably. "You know that the General is completely
mortgaged to him; all his property is his, and if Granny doesn't
die, the Frenchman will come into possession of everything that
is mortgaged to him."

"And is it true that everything is mortgaged? I had heard
it, but I did not know that everything was."

"To be sure it is."

"Then farewell to Mile. Blanche," said I. "She won't be
the General's wife, then! Do you know, it strikes me the
General is so much in love that he may shoot himself if MUe.
Blanche throws him over. It is dangerous to be so much in
love at his age."

"I fancy that something will happen to him, too," Polina
Alexandrovna observed musingly.

"And how splendid that would be!" I cried. "They couldn't
have shown more coarsely that she was only marrying him for
his money! There's no regard for decency, even; there's no
ceremony about it whatever. That's wonderful! And about
Granny — could there be an57thing more comic and sordid than
to be continually sending telegram after telegram: 'Is she dead,
is she dead?'? How do you Uke it, Polina Alexandrovna?"

"That's all nonsense," she said, interrupting me with an air
of disgust. "I wonder at your being in such good ^irits. What
are you so pleased about? Surely not at having lost my
money?"

"Why did you give it to me to lose? I told you I could not
play for other people — especially for you! I obey you, what-
ever you order me to do, but I can't answer for the result. I
warned you that nothing would come of it. Are you very
much upset at losing so much money? What do jrou want so
much for?"

"Why these questions?"

"Why, you promised to explain to me . . . Listen: I am
absolutely convinced that when I begin playing for myself (and
I've got twelve friedrichs d'or) I shall win. Then you can
borrow as much from me as you like."

She made a contemptuous grimace.

"Don't be angry with me for such a suggestion," I went on.

"I am so deeply conscious that I am nothing beside you ^that

is, in your eyes — that you may even borrow money from me.
Presents from me cannot insult you. Besides, I lost yours."

She looked at me quickly, and seeing that I was speaking
irritably and sarcastically, interrupted the conversation again.

24

"There's nothing of interest to you in my circumstances. If
you want to know, I'm simply in debt. I've borrowed money
and I wanted to repay it. I had the strange and mad idea that
I should be sure to win here at the gambling table. Why I had
the idea I can't understand, but I believed in it. Who knows,
perhaps I beUeved it because no other alternative was left
me."

"Or because it was quite necessary you should win. It's
exactly like a drowning man clutching at a straw. You will
admit that if he were not drowning he would not look at a
straw as a branch of a tree."

PoUna was surprised.

"Why," she said, "you were reckoning on the saiae thing
yourself! A fortnight ago you said a great deal to me about
your being absolutely convinced that you could win here at
roulette, and tried to persuade me not to look upon you as
mad; or were you joking then? But I remember you spoke
so seriously that it was impossible to take it as a joke."

"That's true," I answered thoughtfully. "I am convinced
to this moment that I shall win. I confess you have led me
now to wonder why my senseless and unseemly failure to-day
has not left the slightest doubt in me. I am still fully con-
vinced that as soon as I begin playing for myself I shall be
certain to win."

"Why are you so positive?"

"If you will have it — I don't know. I only know that I
must win, that it is the only resource left me. Well, that's why,
perhaps, I fancy I am bound to win."

"Then you, too, absolutely must have it, since you are so
fanatically certain?"

"I bet you think I'm not capable of feeling that I must have
anything?"

"That's nothing to me," Polina cinswered quietly and in-
differently. "Yes, if you like. I doubt whether anything
troubles you in earnest. You may be troubled, but not in
earnest. You are an unstable person, not to be relied on. What
do you want money for? I could see nothing serious in the
reasons you brought forward the other day."

"By the way," I interrupted, "you said that you had to
repay a debt. A fine debt it must be! To the Frenchman, I
suppose?"

"What questions! You're particularly impertinent to-day.
Are you drunk, perhaps?"

25

"You know that I consider myself at liberty to say anything
to you, and sometimes ask you very candid questions. I repeat,
I'm your slave, and one does not mind what one says to a
slave, and cannot take offence at anything he says."

"And I can't endure that 'slave' theory of yours."

"Observe that I don't speak of my slavery because I want
to be your slave. I simply speak of it as a fact which doesn't
depend on me in the least."

"Tell me plainly, what do you want money for?"

"What do you want to know that for?"

"As you please," she replied, with a proud movement of her
head.

"You can't endure the 'slave' theory, but insist on slavish-
ness: 'Answer and don't argue.' So be it. Why do I want
money? yOu ask. How can you ask? Money is everything!"

"I understand that, but not falling into such madness from
wanting it! You, too, are growing frenzied, fataUstic. There
must be something behind it, some special object. Speak
without beating about the bush; I wish it."

She seemed beginning to get angry, and I was awfully
pleased at her questioning me with such heat.

"Of course there is an object," I answered, "but I don't
know how to explain what it is. Nothing else but that
with money I should become to you a different man, not a
slave."

"What? How will you manage that?"

"How shall I manage it? What, you don't even understand
how I could manage to make you look at me as anything but a
slave? Well, that's just what I don't care for, such surprise
and incredulity 1 "

"You said this slavery was a pleasure to you. I thought it
was myself."

"You thought so!" I cried, with a strange enjoyment. "Oh,
how delightful such nmvetd is from you 1 Oh, yes, yes, slavery
to you is a pleasure. There is — ^there is a pleasure in the utmost
limit of humiliation and insignificance!" I went on maunder-
ing. "Goodness knows, perhaps there is in the knout when the
knout lies on the back and tears the flesh. . . . But I should
perhaps like to enjoy another kind of enjoyment. Yesterday,
in your presence, the General thought fit to read me a lecture
for the seven hundred roubles a year which perhaps I may not
receive from him after all. The Marquis de Grieux raises his
eyebrows and stares at me without noticing me. And I, per-

26

haps, have a passionate desire to pull the Marquis de Grieux by
the nose in your presence!"

"That's tiie speech of a milksop. One can behave with
dignity in any position. If there is a struggle, it is deyating,
not humiliating."

"That's straight out of a copybook I You simidy take for
granted that I don't know how to behave with dignity; that is,
that perhaps I am a man of moral dignity, but that I don't
know how to behave with dignity. You imderstand that that
perhaps may be so. Yes, all Russians are like that; and do you
know why? Because Russians are too richly endowed and
many-sided to be able readily to evolve a code of manners. It is
a question of good form. For the most part we Russians are so
richly endowed that we need genius to evrfve our code of
manners. And genius is most often absent, for, indeed, it is a
rarity at aU times. It's only among the Frendi, and perhaps
some other Europeans, that the code of manners is so weD
defined that one may have an air of the utmost dignity and
yet be a man of no moral dignity whatever. That's why good
form means so much with them. A Frenchman will put up
with an insult, a real, moral insult, without blinking, but he
wouldn't endure a flip on the nose for anything, because that
is a breach of the received code, sanctified for ages. That's
I why our Russian young ladies have such a weakness for
Frenchmen, that their manners are so good. Though, to my
thinking, they have no manners at all; it's simply the cock in
them; fe coq geadois,. I can't understand it, though; I'm not
a woman. Perhaps cocks are nice. And, in fact, I've been
talking nonsense, and you don't stop me. You must stop me
more often. When I talk to you I long to tell you ever37thing,
everything, everything. I am oblivious of all good manners.
I'll evea admit that I have no manners, no moral qualities
either. I tell you that. I don't even worry my head about
moral qualities of any sort; everything has come to a stand-
still in me now; you know why. I have not one human idea
in my head. For a long time past I've known nothing that
has gone on in the world, either in Russia or here. Here I've
been through Dresden, and I don't remember what Dresden
was like. You know what has swallowed me up. As I have
no hope whatever and am nothing in your eyes, I speak
openly: I see nothing but you evers^where, and all the rest
is naught to me. Why and how I love you I dmi't know.
Perfiaps you are not at all nice really, you know. Fancy! I

27 B

don't know whether you are good or not, even to look at. You
certainly have not a good heart; your mind may very well be
ignoble."

"Perhaps that's how it is you reckon on buying me with
money," she said, "because you don't believe in my sense of
honour."

"When did I reckon on buying you with money?" I cried.

"You have been talking till you don't know what you are
saying. If you don't think of bujdng me, you think of buying
my respect with your money."

"Oh no, that's not it at all. I told you it was difficult for
me to explain. You are overwhelming me. Don't be angry
with my chatter. You know why you can't be angiy with me :
I'm simply mad. Though I really don't care, even if you are
angry. When I am upstairs in my httie garret I have only to
remember and imagine the rustle of your dress, and I am ready
to bite off my hands. And what are you angry with me for?
For calling myself your slave? Make use of my being your
slave, make use of it, make use of it I Do you know that I shall
kill you one day? I shall kill you not because I shall cease to
love you or be jealous, I shall simply kill you because I have
an impulse to devour you. You laugh. ..."

"I'm not laughing," she answered wrathfuUy. "I order you
to be silent."

She stood still, almost breathless with anger. Upon my word,
I don't know whether she was handsome, but I always liked
to look at her when she stood facing me like that, and so I
often liked to provoke her anger. Perhaps she had noticed this
and was angry on purpose. I said as much to her.

"How disgusting!" she said, with an air erf repulsion.

"I don't care," I went on. "Do you know, too, that it is
dangerous for us to walk together? I often have an irresistible
longing to beat you, to disfigure you, to strangle you. And
what do you think — ^won't it come to that? You are driving
me into brain fever. Do you suppose I am afraid of a scandal?
Your anger — why, what is your anger to me? I love you with-
out hope, and I know that after this I shall love you a thousand
times more than ever. If ever I do kill you I shall have to kill
myself, too. Oh, well, I shall put off kilUng myself as long
as possible, so as to go on feeling this insufferable pain of being
witiiout you. Do you know something incredible? I love you
more every day, and yet that is almost impossible. And how
can I help being a fatalist? Do you remember the day before

28

yesterday, on the Schlangentoerg, I whispered at your provoca-
tion, 'Say the word, and I will leap into that abyss' ? If you
had said that word I should have jumped in then. Don't you
believe that I would have leapt down?"

"What stupid talk!" she cried.

"I don't care whether it is stupid or clever!" I cried. "I
know that in your presence I must talk, eind talk, and talk —
and I do talk. I lose cill self-respect in your presence, and I
don't care."

"What use would it he for me to order you to jump off the
Schlangenberg?" she said in a dry and peculiarly insulting
manner. "It would be absolutely useless to me."

"Splendid," I cried; "you said that splendid 'useless' on
purpose to overwhelm me. I see through you. Useless, you
say? But pleasure is always of use, and savage, unbounded
power — if only over a fly — is a pleasure in its way, too. Man
is a despot by nature, and loves to be a torturer. You like
it awfuDy."

I remember she looked at me with peculiar fixed attention.
My face must have expressed my incoherent and absurd sensa-
tions. I remember to this moment that our conversation
actually was almost word for word exactly as I have described
it here. My eyes were Hoodshot. There were flecks of foam
on my Ups. And as for the Schlangenberg, I swear on my word
of honour even now, if she had told me to fling myself down I
should have flung myself down! If only for a joke she had
said it, with contempt, if with a jeer at me she had said it, I
should even then have leapt down!

"No, why? I believe you," she pronounced, as only she
knows how to speak, with such contempt and venom, with such
scorn that, by God, I could have killed her at the moment.

She risked it. I was not lying about that, too, in what I said
to her.

"You are not a coward?" she asked me suddenly.

"Perhaps I am a coward. I don't know. ... I have not
thought about it for a long time."

"If I were to say to you, 'Kill this man,' would you kill
him?"

"Whom?"

"Whom I choose."

"The Frenchman?"

"Don't ask questions, but answer. Whom I tell you. I want
to know whether you spoke seriously just now?"

39

She waited for my answer so gravely and impatiently that it
struck me as strange.

"Come, do tell me, what has been happening here?" I cried,
"What are you afraid of— me, or what? I see all the muddle
here for myself. You are the stepdaughter of a mad and ruined
man possessed by a passion for that devil — ^Blanche. Then
there is this Frenchman, with his mysterious influence over
you, and— here you ask me now so gravely . . . such a
question. At any rate let me know, or I shall go mad on the
spot and do something. Are you ashamed to deign to be open
with me? Surely you can't care what I think of you?"

"I am not speaking to you of that at all. I asked you a
question and I'm waiting for an answer."

"Of course I will kill anyone you tell me to," I cried. "But
can you possibly . . . could you tell me to do it?"

"Do you suppose I should spare you? I shall tell you to,
and stand aside and look on. Can you endure that? Why, no,
as though you could I You would kill him, perhaps, fi you
were told, and then you would come and kill me for having
dared to send you."

I felt as though I were stunned at these words. Of course,
even then I looked upon her question as half a joke, a
challenge; yet she had spoken very earnestly. I was struck,
nevertheless, at her speaking out so frankly, at her maintaining
such rights over me, at her accepting such power over me and
saying so bluntly: "Go to ruin, and I'll stand siside and look
on." In those words there was something so open and cynical
that to my mind it was going too far. That, then, was how she
looked at me. This was something more than slavery or
insignificance. If one looks at a man like that, one exalts him
to one's own level, and absurd and incredible as all our con-
versation was, yet there was a throb at my heart.

Suddenly she laughed. We were sitting on a bench, before
the pla3dng children, facing the place where the carriages used
to stop and people used to get out in the avenue before the
Casino.

"Do you see that stout baroness?" she cried. "That is
Baroness Burmerhelm. She has only been here three days. Do
you see her husband — a tall, lean Prussian with a stick? Do
you remember how he looked at us the day before yesterday?
Go up to the Baroness at once, take off your hat, and say
something to her in French."
"Why?"

30

"You swore that you would jump down the Schlangenberg;
you swear you are ready to kill anyone if I tell you. Instead
of these murders and tragedies I only want to laugh. Go with-
out discussing it. I want to see the Baron thrash you with his
stick."

"You challenge me; you think I won't do it? "
"Yes, I do challenge you. Go; I want you to!"
"By all means, I am going, though it's a wild freak. Only, I
say, I hope it won't be unpleasant for the General, and through
him for you. Upon my honour, I am not thinking of myself,
but of you and the General. And what a mad idea to insult a
woman!"

"Yes, you are only a chatterer, as I see," she said con-
temptuously. "Your eyes were fierce and bloodshot, but
perhaps that was only because you had top much wine at
dinner. Do you suppose that I don't understand that it is
stupid and vulgar, and that the General would be angry? I
simply want to laugh; I want to, and that's all about it I And
what should you insult a woman for? Why, just to be
thrashed."

I turned and went in silence to cany out her commission.
Of course it was stupid, and of course I did not know how to
get out of it, but as I began to get closer to the Baroness I
remember, as it were, something within myself urging me on;
it was an impulse of schoolboyish mischief. Besides, I was
horribly overwrought, and felt just as though I were drunk.

CHAPTER VI

NOW two days have passed since that stupid day. And
what a noise and fuss and talk and uproar there was 1 And
how unseemly and disgraceful, how stupid and vulgar, it was I
And I was the cause of it all. Yet at times it's laughabler— to
me, at any rate. I can't make up my mind what happened
to me, whether I really was in a state of frenzy, or whether it
was a momentary aberration and I behaved disgracefully till I
was pulled up. At times it seemed to me that my mind was
giving way. And at times it seems to me that I have not out-
grown childhood and schoolboyishness, and that it was simply
a crude schoolboy's prank.

31

It was Polina, it was all Polina ! Perhaps I shouldn't have
behaved hke a schoolboy if it hadn't been for her. Who knows?
perhaps I did it out of despair (stupid as it seems, though, to
reason like that). And I don't understand, I don't understand
what there is fine in her! She is fine, though; she is; I beheve
she's fine. She drives other men off their heads, too. She's
taU and graceful, only very slender. It seems to me you could
tie her in a knot or bend her double. Her foot is long and
narrow — ^tormenting. Tormenting is just what it is. Her hair
has a reddish tint. Her eyes are regular cat's eyes, but how
proudly and disdainfully she can look with them. Four months
ago, when I had only just come, she was talking hotly for a
long while one evening with De Grieux in the drawing-room,
and looked at him in such a way . . . that afterwards, when I
went up to my room to go to bed, I imagined that she must
have just given him a slap in the face. She stood facing him
and looked at him. It was from that evening that I loved her.

To come to the point, however.

I stepped off the path into the avenue, and stood waiting for
the Baron and the Baroness. When they were five paces from
me I took off my hat and bowed.

I remember the Baroness was wearing a light grey dress of
immense circumference, with flounces, a crinoline, and a train.
She was short and exceptionally stout, with such a fearful
double chin that she seemed to have no neck. Her face was
crimson. Her eyes were small, spiteful and insolent. She
walked as though she were doing an honour to all beholders.
The Baron was lean and tall. Like most Germans, he had a
wry face covered with thousands of fine wrinkles, and wore
spectacles; he was about forty-five. His legs seemed to start
from his chest : that's a sign of race. He was as proud as a pea-
cock. He was rather clumsy. There was something like a sheep
in the expression of his face that would pass with them for
profundity.

All this flashed upon my sight in three seconds.

My bow and the hat in my hand gradually arrested their
attention. The Baron slightly knitted his brows. The Baroness
simply sailed straight at me.

"Madame la baroitme," I articulated distinctly, emphasising
each word, "j'ai I'honnewr d'etre voire esclave."

Then I bowed, replaced my hat, and walked past the Baron,
turning my face towards him with a polite smile.

She had told me to take off my hat, but I had bowed and

32

behaved like an impudent schoolboy on my own account.
Goodness knows what impelled me to I I felt as though I were
plunging into space.

"Hdn!" cried, or ' rather croaked, the Baron, turning
towards me with angry surprise.

I turned and remained in respectful expectation, still gazing
at him with a smile. He was evidently perplexed, and raised
his eyebrows as high as they would go. His face grew darker
and darker. The Baroness, too, turned towards me, and she,
too, stared in wrathful surprise. The passers-by began to look
on. Some even stop>ped.

"Hdn!" the Baron croaked again, with redoubled guttural-
ness and redoubled anger.

"Ja wohU" I drawled, still looking him straight in the face.

"Sind sie rasend?" he cried, waving his stick and beginning,
I think, to be a little nervous. He was perhaps perplexed by
my appearance. I wsls very well, even foppishly, dressed, hke
a man belonging to the best society.

"Ja wo-o-ahU" I shouted suddenly at the top of my voice,
drawling the o like the Berliners, who use the expression ja wohl
in every sentence, and drawl the letter o more or less according
to the shade of their thought or feeling.

The Baron and Baroness turned away quickly and almost
ran away from me in terror. Of the spectators, some were
talking, others were gazing at me in amazement. I don't
remember very clearly, though.

I turned and walked at my ordinary pace to Polina Alexan-
drovna.

But when I was within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her
get up and walk with the children towards the hotel.

I overtook her at the door.

"I have performed . . . the foolery," I said, when I
reached her.

"Well, what of it? Now you can get out of the scrape," she
answered. She walked upstciirs without even glancing at
me.

I spent the whole evening walking about the park. I crossed
the park and then the wood beyond and walked into another
state. In a cottage I had an omelette and some wine; for that
idyllic repast they extorted a whole thaler and a half.

It was eleven o'clock before I returned home. I was at once
summoned before the General.

Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; they have four

33

rooms. The first is a bag room — a drawing-room with a piano
in it. The next, also a large room, is the General's study.
Here he was awaiting me, standing in the middle of the room in
a majestic pose. De Grieux sat lolling on the sofa.

"Allow me to ask you, sir, what have you been about?"
began the General, addressing me.

"I should be glad if you would go straight to the point.
General," said I. "You probably mean to refer to my
encounter with a German this morning?"

"A German? That German was Baron Burmerhelm, a very
important personage I You insulted him and the Baroness."

"Not in the least."

"You alarmed them, sir!" cried the General.

"Not a bit of it. When I was in Berlin the sound was for
ever in my ears of that ja wohl, continually repeated at every
word and disgustingly drawled put by them. When I met them
in the avenue that ja wokl suddenly came into my mind, I don't
know why, and — well, it had cin irritating effect on me . . .
Besides, the Baroness, who has met me three times, has the
habit of walking straight at me as though I were a worm who
might be trampled underfoot. You must admit that I, too,
may have my proper pride. I took off my hat and said poUtely
(I assure you I said it politely) : 'Madame, j'ca I'hcnneur d'etre
voire escktve.' When tiie Baron turned round and ssdd, 'Hem!'
I felt an impulse to shout, 'Ja wohl!' I shouted it twice: the
first time in an ordinary tone, and the second — I drawled it as
much as I could. That was all."

I must own I was intensely delighted at this extremely school-
boyish explanation. I had a strange desire to make tiie story
as absurd as possible in the telling.

And as I went on, I got more and more to relish it.

"Are you laughing at me?" cried the General. He turned
to the Frenchman and explained to him in French tha t I was
positively going out of my way to provoke a scandal! De
Grieux laughed contemptuously and shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, don't imagine that; it was not so at all I" I cried.
"My conduct was wrong, of course, I confess that with the
utmcst candour. My behaviour may even be called a stupid
and improper schoolboy prank, but — nothing more. And do
you know. General, I heartily regret it. But there is one cir-
cumstance which, to my mind at least, almost saves me from
repentance. Lately, for the last fortnight, indeed, I've not been
feeling well : I have felt ill, nervous, irritable, moody, and on

34

some occasions I lose all control of myself. Really, I've some-
times had an intense impulse to attack the Marquis de Grieux
and . . . However, there's no need to say, he might be offended.
In short, it's the sign of illness. I don't know whether the
Baroness Burmerhelm will take this fact into consideration when
I beg her pardon (for I intend to apologise). I imagine she will
not consider it, especially as that line of excuse has been some-
what abused in legal dirles of late. Lawyers have taken to
arguing in criminal cases that their dients were not responsible
at the moment of their crime, and that it was a form of disease.
'He killed him,' they say, 'and has no memory of it.' And
only imagine. General, the medical authorities support them —
and actually maintain that there are illnesses, temporary abrara-
tions in which a man scarcely remembers anything, or has only
a half or a quarter of his memory. But the Baron and Baroness
are people of the older generation; besides, they are Prussian
junkers and landowners, and so are probably unaware of this
advance in the wodd of medical jurisprudence, and wiU not
accept my explanation. What do you think, General?"

"Enough, sir," the General pronounced diarply, with sur-
prised indignation; "enough! I will try once for all to rid
m3rself of your mischievous pranks. You are not going to
apologise to the Baron and Baroness. Any communication with
you, even though it were to consist solely of your request for
forgiveness, would be beneath their dignity. The Baron has
learnt that you are a member of my household; he has already
had an explanation with me at the Casino, and I assure you
that he was within an ace of asking me to give him satisfaction.
Do you understand what you have exposed me to — ^me, sir?
I — I was forced to ask the Baron's pardon, and gave him my
word that immediately, this very day, you would cease to be a
member of my household."

"Excuse me, excuse me. General — did he insist on that
himself, that I should cease to belong to your household, as you
were pleased to express it?"

"No, but I considered myself bound to give him that satis-
faction, and, of course, the Baron was satisfied. We must part,
sir. There is what is owing to you, four friedrichs d'or and
three florins, according to the reckoning here. Here is the
money, and here is the note of the account; you can verify it.
Good-bye. From this time forth we are strangers. I've had ^
nothing but trouble and unpleasantness from you. I will call
the keUfiffr and inform him from this day forth that I am not

35 B*

responsible for your hotel expenses. I have the honour to
remain your obedient servant."

I took the money and the paper upon which the account was
written in pencil, bowed to the General, and said to him very
seriously —

"General, the matter cannot end like this. I am very sorry
that you were put into an unpleasant position with the Baron,
but, excuse me, you were to blame for it yourself. Why did
you take it upon yourself to be responsible for me to the Baron?
What is the meaning of the expression that I am a member of
your household? I am simply a teacher in your house, that
is all. I am neither your son nor your ward, and you cannot
be responsible for my actions. I am a legally responsible person,
I am twenty-five, I am a graduate of the university, I am a
nobleman, I am not connected with you in any way. Nothing
but my unbounded respect for your dignity prevents me now
from demanding from you the fullest explanaticMi and satisfac-
tion for taking upon yourself the right to answer for me."

The General was so much amazed that he flung up his hands,
then turned suddenly to the Frenchman and hurriedly informed
him that I had just all but challenged him to a duel.

The Frenchman laughed aloud.

"But I am not going to let the Baron off," I said, with com-
plete compostire, not in the least embarrassed by M. de Grieux's
laughter; "and as. General, you consented to listen to the
Baron's complaint to-day and have taken up his cause, and
have made yourself, as it were, a party in the whole affair, I
have the honour to inform you that no later than to-morrow
morning I shall ask the Baron on my own account for a formal
explanation of the reasons which led him to apply to other
persons — as though I were unable or unfit to answer for myself."

What I foresaw happened. The General, hearing of this new
absurdity, became horribly nervous.

"What, do you mean to keep up this damnable business?"
he shouted. "What a position you are putting me in — good
heavens! Don't dare, don't dare, sir, or, I swear! . . . There
are police here, too, and I ... I ... in fact, by my rank . . .
and the Baron's, too ... in fact, you shall be arrested and
turned out of the state by the police, to teach you not to make
a disturbance. Do you understand that, sir?" And although
he was breathless with anger, he was also horribly frightened.

"General," I answered, with a composure that was insuffer-
able to him, "you can't arrest anyone for making a disturbance

^6

before they have made a disturbance. I have not yet begun to
make my explanations to the Baron, and you don't know in the
least in what form or on what grounds I intend to proceed. I
only wish to have an explanation of a position insulting to me,
i.e. that I am under the control of a person who has authority
over my freedom of action. There is no need for you to be so
anxious and uneasy."

"For goodness' sake, for goodness' sake, Alexey Ivanovitch,
drop this insane intention!" muttered the General, suddenly
changing his wrathful tone for one of entreaty, and even clutch-
ing me by the hand. "Fancy what it will lead to! Fresh un-
pleasantness ! You must see for yourself that I must be particu-
lar here . . . particularly now! particularly now! . . . Oh,
you don't know, you don't know all my circumstances! . . .
When we leave tlus place I shall be willing to take you back
again; I was only speaking of now, in fact — of course, you
understand there are reasons!" he cried in despair. "Alexey
Ivanovitch, Alexey Ivanovitch ..."

Retreating to the door, I begged him more earnestly not to
worry himself, promised him that everything should go off well
and with propriety, and hastily witii(i:ew.

The Russian abroad is sometimes too easily cowed, and is
horribly afraid of what people will say, how they will look at
him, and whether this or that will be the proper thing. In short,
they behave as though they were in corsets, especially those
who have pretensions to consequence. The thing that pleases
them most is a certain established traditional etiquette, which
they follow slavishly in hotels, on their walks, in assemblies, on
a journey . . . But the General had let slip that, apart from
this, there was a particular circumstance, that he must be "par-
ticular." That was why he so weakly showed the white feather
and changed his tone with me. I took this as evidence and
made a note of it; and, of course, he might have brought my
folly to the notice of the authorities, so that I really had to be
careful.

I did not particularly want to anger the General, however;
but I did want to anger Polina. Polina had treated me so
badly, and had thrust me into such a stupid position, that I
could not help wanting to force her to beg me to stop. My
schoolboyish prank might compromise her, too. Moreover,
another feeling and desire was taking shape in me: though I
might be reduced to a nonentity in her presence, that did not
prove that I could not hold my own before other people, or

37

that the Baron could thrash me. I longed to have the laugh
against them all, and to come off with flying colours. Let them
see I She would be frightened by the scandal and call me back
again, or, even if she didn't, at least she would see that I could
hold my own.

(A wonderful piece of news! I have just heard from the
nurse, whom I met on the stairs, that Marya Filippovna set off
to-day, entirely alone, by the evening train to Karlsbad to see
her cousin. What's the meaning of tiiat? Nurse says that she
has long been meaning to go; but how was it no one knew of
it? Though perhaps I was the only one who did not know it.
The nurse let slip that Marya Filippovna had words with the
General the day before yesterday. I understand. No doubt
that is Mile. Blanche. Yes, something decisive is coming.)

CHAPTER VII

IN the morning I called for the keUner and told him to make
out a separate bill for me. My room was not such an expen-
sive one as to make me feel alarmed and anxious to leave the
hotel. I had sixteen friedrichs d'or, and there . . . there per-,
haps was wealth! Strange to say, I have not won yet, but I
behave, I feel and think like a rich man, and caimot imagine
anything else.

In spite of the early hour I intended to go at once to see Mr.
Astley at the H6tel d'Angleterre, which was quite close by,
when suddenly De Grieux came in to me. That had never
happened before, and, what is more, that gentleman and I had
for some time past been on very queer and strained terms. He
openly displayed his contempt for me, even tried not to conceal
it; and I — I had my own reasons for disliking him. In short,
I hated him. His visit greatly surprised me. I at once detected
that something special was brewing.

He came in very politely emd complimented me on my room.
Seeing that I had my hat in my hand, he inquired whether I
could be going out for a walk so early. When he heard that I
was going to see Mr. Astley on business, he pondered, he
reflected, and his face assumed an exceedingly careworn
expression.

De Grieux was like all Frenchmen; that is, gay and poUte

38

when necessary and profitable to be so, and insufferably tedious
when the necessity to be gay and polite was over. A French-
man is not often naturally polite. He is always polite, as it
were, to order, with a motive. If he sees the necessity for being
fantastic, original, a Uttle out of the ordinary, then his freakish-
ness is most stupid and unnatural, and is made up of accepted
and long-vulgarised traditions. The natural Frenchman is com-
posed of the most plebeian, petty, ordinary practical sense — in
fact, he is one of the most wearisome creatures in the world.
In my opinion, only the innocent and inexperienced — especially
Russian young ladies — are fascinated by Frenchmen. To every
decent person the conventionalism of the established traditions
of drawing-room politeness, ease and gaiety are at once evident
and intolerable.

"I have come to see you on business," he began, with marked
directness, though with courtesy, "and I will not disguise that
I have come as an ambassador, or rather cis a mediator, from
the General. As I know Russian very imperfectly I understood
very little of what passed yesterday, but the General explained
it to me in detail, and I confess . . ."

"But, Usten, M. de Grieux," I interrupted; "here you have
undertaken to be a mediator in this affair. I am, of course,
an mOchitel, and have never laid claim to the honour of being a
great friend of this family, nor of being on particularly intimate
terms with it, and so I don't know all the circumstances; but
explain: are you now entirely a member of the family? You
take such an interest in everything and are certain at once to
be a mediator . . ."

This question did not please him. It was too transparent for
him, and he did not want to speak out.

"I am coimected with the General partly by business, partly
by certain special circumstances," he said dryly. "The General
has sent me to ask you to abandon the intentions you expressed
yesterday. All you thought of doing was no doubt very clever;
but he begged me to represent to you that you would be utterly
unsuccessful; what's more, the Baron will not receive you, and
in any case is in a position to rid himself of any further un-
pleasantness on your part. You must see that yourself. Tell
me, what is the object of going on with it? The General pro-
mises to take you back into his home at the first convenient
opportunity, and until that time will continue your salary, ws
af^ndiemeniis. That will be fairly profitable, won't it?"

I retorted very calmly that he was rather mistaken; that

39

perhaps I shouldn't be kicked out at the Baron's, but, on the
contrary, should be listened to; and I asked him to admit that
he had probably come to find out what steps I was going to take
in the matter.

"Oh, heavens! Since the General is so interested, he will,
of course, be glad to know how you are going to behave, and
what you are going to do."

I proceeded to explain, and he began listening, stretching
himself at his ease, and inclining his head on one side towarcfi
me, with an obvious, undisguised expression of irony on his
face. Altogether he behaved very loftily. I tried with all my
might to pretend that I took a very serious view of the matter.
I explained that since the Baron had addressed a complaint of
me to the General as though I were the latter' s servant, he had,
in the first place, deprived me thereby of my position; and
secondly, had treated me as a person who was incapable of
answering for himself and who was not worth speaking to. Of
course, I said, I felt with justice that I had been insulted; how-
ever, considering the difference of age, position in society, and
so on, and so on (I could scarcely restrain my laughter at this
point), I did not want to rush into fresh indiscretion by directly
insisting on satisfaction from the Baron, or even proposing a
duel to him; nevertheless, I considered myself fully entitied
to offer the Baron, and still more the Baroness, my apologies,
especially since of late I had really felt iU. overwrought, and, so
to say, fanciful, and so on, and so on. However, the Baron
had, by his applying to the General, which was a slight to me,
and by his insisting that the General should deprive me of my
post, put me in such a position that now I could not offer him
and the Baroness my apologies, because he and the Baroness
and all the world would certainly suppose that I came to
apologies because I was frightened and in order to be reinstated
in my post. From all this it followed that I found myself now
compelled to beg the Baron first of all to apologise to me in the
most formal terms; for instance, to say that he had no desire
to insult me. And when the Baron said this I should feel that
my hands were set free, and with perfect candour and sincerity
I should offer him my apologies. In brief, I concluded, I could
only beg the Baron to untie my hands.

"Fie! how petty and how far-fetched! And why do you
want to apologise? Come, admit, monsieur . . . monsieur . . .
that you are doing all this on purpose to vex the General . . .
and perhaps you have some special object . . .mon cher mon-

40

sieur . . . pastdcn, j'ai oublie voire nom, M. Alexis? , . . N'est-ce
pas?"

"But excuse me, mon cher marquis, what has it to do with

you?"

"Mais le gdndral . . ."

"But what about the General? He said something last night,
that he had to be particularly careful . . . and was so upset . . .
but I did not understand it."

"There is, there certainly is a particular circumstance,"
De Grieux caught me up in an insistent voice, in which a note
of vexation was more and more marked. "You know Mile, de
Cominges . . .?"

"That is, MUe. Blanche?"

"Why, yes. Mile. Blanche de Cominges . . . et madmm sa
mere. You see for yourself, the General ... in short, the
General is in love; in fact ... in fact, the marriage may be
celebrated here. And fancy, scandal, gossip ..."

"I see no scandal or gossip connected witii the marriage in
this."

"But le baron est si irascible un caractere Prussien, vous
savez, enf,n U fera wne qiterelle d'AUemand."

"With me, then, and not with you, for I no longer belong to
the household . . ." (I tried to be as irrational as possible on
purpose.) "But, excuse me, is it settled, then, that Mile.
Blanche is to marry the General? What are they waiting for?
I mean, why conceal this from us, at any rate, from the
members of ttie household?"

"I cannot . . . however, it is not quite . . . besides . . .
you know, they are expecting news from Russia; the General
has to make arrangements ..."

"A/ a! La babouUrika!"

De Grieux looked at me with hatred.

"In short," he interrupted, "I fully rely on your innate
courtesy, on your intelligence, on your tact . . . You will cer-
tainly do this for the family in which you have been received
like one of themselves, in which you have been Uked and
respected ..."

"Excuse me, I've been dismissed! You maintain now that
that is only in appearance; but you must admit, if you were
told: 'I won't send you packing, but, for the look of the thing,
kindly take yourself off.'. . . You see, it comes almost to the
same thing."

"Well, if that's how it is, if no request will have any influence

41

on you," he began sternly and haughtily, "allow me to assure
you that steps will be taken. There are authorities here; you'll
be turned out to-day — qus climbl&! Un blanc-bec comme vous
wants to challenge a personage like the Baron! And do you
think that you mil not be interfered with? And, let me assure
you, nobody is afraid of you here ! I have approached you on
my own account, because you have been worrying the General.
And do you imagine that the Baron will not order his flunkeys
to turn you out of the house? "

"But, you see, I'm not going myself," I answered, with the
utmost composure. "You are mistaken, M. de Grieux; all this
will be done much more decorously than you imagine. I am
just setting off to Mr. Astley, and I am going to ask him to be
my intermediary; in fact, to be my second. The man likes
me, and certainly will not refuse. He will go to the Baron, and
the Baron will receive him. Even if I am an outchitet and seem
to be something subordinate and, well, defenceless, Mr. Astley
is a nephew of a lord, of a real lord; everyone knows that —
Lord Pibroch — and that lord is here. BeUeve me, the Baron
will be courteous to Mr. Astley and will Usten to him. And if
he won't listen, Mr. Astley will look upon it as a personal affront
(you know how persistent Englishmen are), and wiU send a
friend to caJl on the Baron; he has powerful friends. You may
reckon, now, upon things not turning out quite as you expect."

The Frenchman was certainly scared; all this was really very
much like the truth, and so it seemed that I really might be
able to get up a scandal.

"Come, I beg you," he said in a voice of actual entreaty,
"do drop the whole business! It seems to please you that it
will cause a scandal! It is not satisfaction you want, but a
scandal ! As I have told you, it is very amusing and even witty
— which is perhaps what you are aiming at. But, in short,"
he concluded, seeing that I had got up and was taking my hat,
"I've come to give you these few lines from a certain person;
read them; I was charged to wait for an answer."

Saying this, he took out of his pocket a little note, folded and
sealed with a wafer, and handed it to me.

It was in Polina's handwriting.

"I fancy that you intend to go on with this affair, but there
are special circumstances which I will explain to you perhaps
later; please leave off and give way. It is all such silliness!
I need you, and you promised yourself to obey me. Remember

42

the Schlangenberg; I beg you to be obedient, and, if necessary,
I command you. — ^Your P.

"P.S. — If you are angry with me for what happened yester-
day, forgive me."

Everything seemed to be heaving before my eyes when I read
these lines. My lips turned white and I began to tremble. The
accursed Frenchman watched me with an exaggerated air of
discretion, with his eyes turned away as though to avoid
noticing my confusion. He had better have laughed at me
outright.

"Very good," I answered; "tell Mademoiselle that she may
set her mind at rest. Allow me to ask you," I added sharply,
"why you have been so long giving me this letter. Instead of
chattering about all sorts of nonsense, I think you ought to have
begun with that ... if jrou came expressly with that object."

"Oh, I wanted ... all this is so strange that you must
excuse my natural impatience. I was in hsiste to learn from you
in person what you intended to do. Besides, I don't know what
is in that note, and I thought there was no hurry for me to
give it you."

"I understand: the long and the short of it is you were told
only to give me the letter in case of the utmost necessity, and
if you could settle it by word of mouth you were not to give it
me. Is that right? TeU me plainly, M. de Grieux."

"P&iO-etre," he said, assuming an air of peculiar reserve,
and looking at me with a peculiar glance.

I took off my hat; he took off his hat and went out. It
seemed to me that there was an ironical smile on his lips. And,
indeed, what else could one expect?

"We'll be quits yet, Frenchy; we'll settle our accounts," I
muttered as I went down the stairs. I could not think clearly;
I felt as though I had had a blow on my head. The air revived
me a little.

Two minutes later, as soon as ever I was able to reflect
clearly, two thoughts stood out vividly before me : the first was
that such trivial incidents, that a few mischievous and far-
fetched threats from a mere boy, had caused such tmiversal
consternation ! The second thought was : what sort of influence ■
had this Frenchman over Polina? A mere word from him and'
she does anything he wants — ^writes a note and even begs me.
Of course, their relations have always been a mystery to me
from the very beginning, ever since I began to know them;

43

but of late I have noticed in her a positive aversion and even
contempt for him, while he did not even look at her, was abso-
lutely rude to her. I had noticed it. Polina herself had spoken
of him to me with aversion; she had dropped some extremely
significant admissions ... so he simply had her in his power.
She was in some sort of bondage to him.

CHAPTER VIII

ON the promenade, as it is called here, that is, in the chestnut
avenue, I met my Englishman.

"Oh, oh!" he began, as soon as he saw me. "I was coming
to see you, and you are on your way to me. So you have parted
from your people?"

"Tell me, first, how it is that you know aU this?" I asked
in amazement. "Is it possible that everybody knows of it?"

"Oh, no, everyone doesn't; and, indeed, it's not worth their
knowing. No one is talking about it."

"Then how do you know it?"

"I know, that is, I chanced to leam it. Now, where are you
going when you leave here? I like you and that is why I was
coming to see you."

"You are a splendid man, Mr. Astley," said I (I was very
much interested, however, to know where he could have learnt
it), "and since I have not yet had my coffee, and most likely
you have not had a good cup, come to the caf6 in the Casino.
Let us sit down and have a smoke there, and I will tell you all
about it, and . . . you teU me, too ..."

The cafe was a hundred steps away. They brought us some
coffee. We sat down and I lighted a cigarette. Mr. Astley did
not light one and, gazing at me, prepared to listen.

"I am not going anywhere. I am staying here," I began.

"And I was sure you would," observed Mr. Astley approv-
ingly.

On my way to Mr. Astley I had not meant to tell him any-
thing of my love for Polina, and, in fact, I expressly intended
to say nothing to him about it. He was, besides, very reserved.
From the first I noticed that Polina had made a great impres-
sion upon him, but he never uttered her name. But, strange to
say, now no sooner had he sat down and turned upon me his

44

fixed, pewtery eyes than I felt, I don't know why, a desire to tell
him everything, that is, all about my love in all its aspects. I
was talking to him for half an hour and it was very pleasant
to me; it was the first time I had talked of it ! Noticing that at
certain ardent sentences he was embarrassed, I purposely exag-
gerated my ardour. Only one thing I regret: I said, perhaps,
more than I should about the Frenchman. . . .

Mr. Astley listened, sitting facing me without moving, look-
ing straight into my eyes, not uttering a word, a sound; but
when I spoke of the Frenchman, he suddenly pulled me up
and asked me, severely, whether I had the right to refer to this
circumstance which did not concern me. Mr. Astley always
asked questions very strangely.

"You are right. I am afraid not," I answered.

"You can say nothing definite, nothing that is not sup-
position about that Marquis and Miss Pohna? "

I was surprised again at such a point-blank question from a
man so reserved as Mr. Astley.

"No, nothing definite," I answered; "of course not."

"If so, you have done wrong, not only in speaking of it to
me, but even in thinking of it yourself."

"Very good, very good; I admit it, but that is not the point
now," I interrupted, wondering at myself. At this point I
told him the whole of yesterday's story in full detail : Polina's
prank, my adventure with the Baron, my dismissal, the
General's extraordinary dismay, and, finally, I described in
detail De Grieux's visit that morning. Finally I showed him
the note.

"What do you deduce from all this?" I asked. "I came on
purpose to find out what you think. For my part, I could kill
that Frenchman, and perhaps I shall."

"So could I," said Mr. Astley. "As regards Miss Polina,
you know ... we may enter into relations even with people
who are detestable to us if we are compelled by necessity, r
There may be relations of which you know nothing, dependent
upon outside circumstances. I think you may set your mind
at rest — ^to some extent, of course. As for her action yesterday,
it was strange, of course; not that she wanted to get rid of you
and expose you to the Baron's walking-stick (I don't under-
stand why he did not use it, since he had it in his hands), but
because such a prank is improper ... for such an . . . ex-
quisite young lady. Of course, she couldn't have expected that
you would carry out her jesting wish so literally . . ;"

45

"Do you know what?" I cried suddenly, looking intently
at Mr. Astley. "It strikes me that you have heard about this
aheady— do you know from whom? From MissPolina herself!"

Mr. Astley looked at me with surprise.

"Your eyes are sparkling and I can read your suspicion in
them," he said, regaining his former composure; "but you have
no right whatever to express your suspicions. I cannot recognise
the right, and I absolutely refuse to answer your question."

"Enough! There's no need," I cried, strangely perturbed,
and not knowing why it had come into my head. And when,
where and how could Mr. Astley have laeen chosen by Polina
to confide in? Though, of late, indeed, I had, to some extent,
lost sight of Mr. Astley, and Polina was alwa}^ an enigma to
me, such an enigma that now, for instance, after launching into
an account of my passion to Mr. Astley, I was suddenly struck
while I was speaking by the fact that there was scarcely any-
thing positive and definite I could say about our relations.
Everything was, on the contrary, strange, unstable, and, in
fact, quite unique.

"Oh, very well, very well. I am utterly perplexed and there
is a great deal I can't understand at present," I answered,
gasping as though I were breathless. "You are a good man,
though. And now, another matter, and I ask not your advice,
but your opinion."

After a brief pause I began.

"What do you think? why was the General so scared? Why
did he make such a to-do over my stupid practical joke? Such
a fuss that even De Grieux thought it necessary to interfere
(and he interferes only in the most, importcmt matters); visited
me (think of that!), begged and besought me — ^he, De Grieux
— begged and besought me! Note, finally, he came at nine
o'clock, and by that time Miss Polina's letter was in his hands.
One wonders when it was written. Perhaps they waked Miss
Polina up on purpose ! Apart from what I see clearly from this,
that Miss Polina is his slave (for she even begs my forgiveness!)
— apart from that, how is she concerned in all this, she person-
ally; why is she so much interested? Why are they frightened
of some Baron? And what if the General is marrying Mile.
Blanche Cominges? They say that, owing to that circumstance,
they must be particular, but you must admit that this is some-
what too particular ! What do you think ? I am sure from your
eyes you know more about it llian I do!"

Mr. Astley laughed and nodded.

46

"Certainly. I believe I know much more about it than you,"
he said. "Mile. Blanche is the only person concerned, and I
am sure that is the absolute truth."

"Well, what about Mile. Blanche?" I cried impatiently. (I
suddenly had a hope that something would be disclosed about
Mile. Polina.)

"I fancy that Mile. Blanche has at the moment special
reasons for avoiding a meeting with the Baron and Baroness,
even more an unpleasant meeting, worse still, a scandalous
one."

"Well, weU . . ."

"Two years ago MUe. Blanche was here at Roulettenburg in
the season. I was here, too. Mile. Blanche was not cafied
Mile, de Cominges then, and her mother, Madame la mamem
Cominges, was non-existent then. An}7way, she was never
mentioned. De Grieux — De Grieux was not here either. I
cherish the conviction that, far from being relations, they have
only very recently become acquainted. He — ^De Grieux — ^has
only become a marquis very recently, too — I am sure of that
from one circumstance. One may sissume, in fact, that his name
has not been De Grieux very long either. I know a man here
who has met him passing under another name."

"But he really has a veiyreqwctable circle of acquaintances."

"That may be. Even Mile. Blanche may have. But two
years ago, at the request of that very Baroness, Mile. Blanche
was invited by the police to leave the town, and she did leave it."

"How was that?"

"She made her appearance here first with an Italian, a prince
of some sort, with an historical name — Barberini, or something
like it — a man covered with rings and diamonds, not false ones
either. They used to drive about in a magnificent carriage.
Mile. Blanche used to play tretOe et qtoarante, at first winning,
though her luck changed later on, as far as I remember. I
remember one evening she lost a considerable simi. But, worse
still, im beau matin her prince vanished; the horses and the
carriage vanished too, everything vanished. The bills owing
at the hotels were immense. MUe. Selma (she suddenly ceased
to be Barberini, and became Mile. Selma) was in the utmost
despair. She was shrieking and wailing all over the hotel, and
rent her clothes in her fury. There was a PoUsh count staj^ing
here at the hotel (all Polish travellers are counts), and MUe.
Selma, rending her garments and scratching her face like a cat
with her ^y^iTtiifw) perfumed fingers, made some impression on

47

him. They talked things over, and by dinner-time she ^yas
consoled. In the evening he made his appearance at the Casino
with the lady on his arm. As usual, Mile. Selma laughed very
loudly, and her manner was somewhat more free and easy than
before. She definitely showed that she belonged to the class of
ladies who, when they go up to the roulette table, shoulder the
other players aside to clear a space for themselves. That's
particularly ehic among such ladies. You must have
noticed it?"

"Oh, yes."

"It's not worth noticing. To the annoyance of the decent
public they are not moved on here — at least, not those of them
who can change a thousand-rouble note every day, at the
roulette table. As soon as they cease to produce a note to
change they are asked to withdraw, however. Mile. Selma still
went on changing notes, but her play became more imlucly
than ever. Note that such ladies are very often lucky in their
play; they have a wonderful self-control. However, my story
is finished. One day the Count vanished just as the Prince had
done. However, Mile. Selma made her appearance at the
roulette table alone; this time no one came forward to offer her
his arm. In two days she had lost everything. After laying
down her last louis d'or and losing it, she looked round, and
saw, close by her. Baron Burmerhelm, who was scrutinising
her intently and with profound indignatiai. But Mile. Selma,
not noticing his indignation, accosted the Baron with that smile
we all know so well, and asked him to put down ten louis d'or
on the red for her. In consequence of a complaint from the
Baroness she received that evening an invitation not to show
herself at the Casino again. If you are surprised at my knowing
all these petty and extremely improper details, it is because
I have heard them from Mr. Fider, one of my relations, who
Ccirried off Mile. Selma in his carriage from Roulettenburg to
Spa that very evening. Now, remember. Mile. Blanche wishes
to become the General's wife; probably in order in future not
to receive such invitations as that one from the police at the
Casino, the year before last. Now she does not play; but that
is because, as it seems, she has capital of her own which she
lends out at a percentage to gamblers here. That's a much
safer speculation. I even suspect that the luckless General is
in debt to her. Perhaps De Grieux is, too. Perhaps De Grieux
is associated with her. You will admit that, till the wedding,
at any rate, she can hardly be anxious to attract the atten-

48

tion of the Baron and Baroness in any way. In short, in her
position, nothing could be more disadvantageous than a
scandal. You are connected with their party and your conduct
might cause a scandal, especially as she appears in public every
day either arm-in-arm with the General or in company with
Miss Polina. Now do you understand?"

"No, I don't!" I cried, thumping the table so violently that
the gargan ran up in alarm.

"Tell me, Mr. Astley," I said furiously. "If you knew all
this story and, therefore, know positively what Mile. Blanche
de Cominges is, why didn't you warn me at least, the General,
or, most of all, most of all. Miss Polina, who has shown herself
here at the Casino in public, arm-in-arm with Mile. Blanche?
Can such a thing be allowed?"

"I had no reason to warn you, for you could have done
nothing," Mr. Astley answered calmly. "Besides, warn them
of what? The General knows about Mile. Blanche perhaps
more thsm I do, yet he still goes about with her and Miss Polina.
The General is an unlucky man. I saw Mile. Blainche yester-
day, galloping on a splendid horse with M. de Grieux and that
littie Russian Prince, and the General was galloping after them
on a chestnut. He told me in the morning that his legs ached,
but he sat his horse well. And it struck me at that moment
that he was an utterly ruined man. Besides, all this is no
business of mine, and I have only lately had the honour of
making Miss Polina's acquaintance. However" (Mr. Astley
caught himself up), "I've told you already that I do not recog-
nise your right to ask certain questions, though I have a
genuine liking for you ..."

"Enough," I said, getting up. "It is clear as daylight to me
now that Miss Polina knows all about Mile. Blanche, but that
she cannot part from her Frenchman, and so she brings herself
to going about with Mile. Blanche. Believe me, no other in-
fluence would compel her to go about with Mile. Blanche and to
beg me in her letter not to interfere with the Baron! Damn
it all, there's no understanding it!"

"You forget, in the first place, that this Mile, de Cominges is
the General's fiatmcde, and in the second place that Miss Polina
is the General's stepdaughter, that she has a little brother and
sister, the General's own children, who are utterly ijeglected by
that insane man and have, I believe, been robbed by him."

"Yes, yes, that is so! To leave the children would mean
abandoning them altogether; to remain means protecting tiieir

49

interests and, perhaps, saving some fragments of thdr
property. Yes, yes, all that is true. But still, still! ... Ah now
I understand why they are all so concerned about Granny!"

"About whom?" asked Mr. Astley.

"That old witch in Moscow who won't die, and about whom
they are expecting a telegram that she is djring."

"Yes, of course, all interest is concentrated on her. Every-
thing depends on what she leaves them I If he comes in for a
fortune the General wiU marry. Miss Polina wiU be set free,
and De Grieux . . ."

"Well, and De Grieux?"

"And De Grieux will be paid; that is all he is waiting for
here."

"Is that all, do you think that is all he's waiting for?"

"I know nothing more." Mr. Astley was obstinately silent.

"But I do, I do!" I repeated fiercely. "He's waiting for
the inheritance too, because Polina wiU get a dowry, and as
soon as she gets the money will throw herself on his neck. All
women are like that 1 Even the proudest of them turn into the
meanest slaves! Polina is only capable of loving passionately:
nothing else. That's my opinion of her! Look at her, par-
ticularly when she is sitting alone, thinking; it's something
predfestined, doomed, fated ! She is capable of all the horrors
of life, and passion . . . she . . . she . . . but who is that
calling me?" I exclaimed suddenly. "Who is shouting? I
heard someone shout in Russian: Alexey Ivanovitch! A
woman's voice. Listen, listen!"

At this moment we were approaching the hotd. We had
left the caf6 long ago, almost without noticing it.

"I did hear a wgman calling, but I don't know who was
being called; it is Russian. Now I see where the shouts come
from," said Mr. Astley. "It is that woman sitting in a big
armchair who has just he&x carried up the steps by so many
flunkeys. They are carrying trunks after her, so the train must
have just come in."

"But why is she calling me? She is shouting again; look, she
is waving to us."

"I see she is waving," said Mr. Astley.

"Alexey Ivanovitch! Alexey Ivanovitch! Mercy on us,
what a dolt he is ! " came desperate shouts from the hotel steps.

We almost ran to the entrance. I ran up the steps and . . .
my hands dropped at my sides with amazement and my feet
seemed rooted to the ground.

50

CHAPTER IX

AT the top of the broad steps at the hotel entrance, sur-
rounded by footmen and maids and the many obsequious
servants of the hotel, in the presence of the ober-keU^r himself,
eager to receive the exalted visitor, who had arrived with her
own servants and with so many trunks and boxes, and had
been carried up the steps in an invalid chcdr, was seated —
Granny.' Yes, it was she herself, the terrible old Moscow lady
and wealthy landowner, Antonida Vassilyevna Tarasyevitchev,
the Granny about whom telegrams had been sent and received,
who had been dying and was not dead, and who had suddenly
dropped upon us in person, like snow on our heads. Though
she was seventy-five and had for the last five years lost lie
use of her legs and had to be carried about everywhere in a
chair, yet she had arrived and was, as always, alert, captious,
self-satisfied, sitting upright in her chair, shouting in a loud,
peremptory voice and scolding everyone. In fact, she was
exactly the same as she had been on the only two occasions
that I had the honour of seeing her during the time I had been
tutor in the General's family. Natundly I stood rooted to the
spot with amazement. As she was being carried up the steps,
die had detected me a hundred paces away, with her lynx-
like eyes, had recognised me and called me by my name, which
she had made a note of, once for all, as she always did. And
this was the woman they had expected to be in her coffin,
buried, and leaving them her property. That was the thought
that flashed into my mind. "Why, she will outlive all of us
and everyone in the hotel 1 But, my goodness! what will our
friends do now, what wiU the General do? She will turn the
whole hotel upside down!"

"Well, my good man, why are you standing with your eyes
starting out of your head?" Granny went on shouting to me.
"Can't you welcome me? Can't you say 'How do you do'?
Or have you grown proud and won't? Or, perhaps, you don't
recognise me? Potapitch, do you hear?" She turned to her
butler, an old man with grey hair and a pdnk bald patch on his
head, wearing a dress-coat and white tie. "Do you hear? he
doesn't recognise me. They had buried me! They sent
telegram upon telegram to ask whether I was dead or
not! You see, I know all about it! Here, you see, I am
quite alive."

51

"Upon my word, Antonida Vassilyevna, why should I wish
you hami?" J answered gaily, recovering myself. "I was only
surprised . . . And how could I help being surprised at such
cin unexpected ..."

"What is there to surprise you? I just got into the train
and came. The train was comfortable and not jolting. Have
you been for a walk?"

"Yes, I've been a walk to the Casino."

"It's pleasant here," said Granny, looking about her. "It's
warm and the trees are magnificent. I like that! Are the
family at home? TTie General?"

"Oh, yes, at this time they are sure to be all at home."

"So they have fixed hours here, and everything in style?
They set the tone. I am told they keep their carriage, les
seignewrs mssesl They sp>end all their money and then they
go abroad. And is Praskovya with them? "

"Yes, Polina Alexandrovna, too."

"And the Frenchy? Oh, well, I shall see them all for myself.
Alexey Ivanovitch, show me the way straight to him. Are you
comiortable here ? ' '

"Fairly so, Antonida Vassilyevna."

"Potapitch, tell that dolt, the kelln&r, to give me a nice con-
venient set of rooms, not too high up, and take my things there
at once. Why are they all so eager to carry me? Why do they
put themselves forward? Ech, the slavish creatures! Who is
this with you?" she asked, addressing me again.

"This is Mr. Astley," I answered.

"What Mr. Astley?"

"A traveller, a good friend of mine; an acquaintance of the
General's, too."

"An EngUshman. To be sure, he stares at me and keeps
his mouth shut. I like Englishmen, though. Well, carry me
upstairs, straight to their rooms. Where are they? "

They carried Granny up; I walked up the broad staircase
in front. Our procession was very striking. Everyone we met
stopped and stared. Our hotel is considered the best, the most
expensive, and the most aristocratic in the place. Magnificent
ladies and dignified Englishmen were always to be met on the
staircase and in the corridors. Many people were making
inquiries below of the ober-kelhter, who was greatly impressed.
He answered, of course, that this was a distinguished foreign
lady, ime ruisse, une comtesse, grande dame, and that she was
taking the very apartments that had been occupied the week

52

before by la grande duchesse de N. Granny's commanding and
authoritative appearance as she was carried up in the chair was
chiefly responsible for the sensation she caused. Whenever she
met anyone fresh she scrutinised him inquisitively and ques-
tioned me about him in a loud voice. Granny was powerfully
built, and though she did not get up from her chair, it could
be seen that she was very tall. Her back was as straight as a
board and she did not lean back in her chair. Her big grey
head with its large, bold features was held erect; she had a
positively haughty and defiant expression; and it was evident
that her air and gestures were perfectly natural. In spite of
her seventy-five years there was still a certain vigour in her
face : and even her teeth were almost perfect. She was wearing
a black silk dress and a white cap.

"She interests me very much," Mr. Astley, who was going
up beside me, whispered to me.

"She knows about the telegrams," I thought. "She knows
about De Grieux, too, but I fancy she does not know much
about Mile. Blanche as yet." I communicated this thought to
Mr. Astley.

Sinful man that I was, after the first surprise was over, I was
immensely deUghted at the thunderbolt that we were launching
at the General. I was elated; and I walked in front feeling
very gay.

Our apvartments were on the third iloor. Without announcing
her arrival or even knocking at the door, I simply flung it wide
open and Granny was carried in, in triumph. All of them were,
as by design, assembled in the General's study. It was twelve
o'clock and, I believe, some excursion was being planned for
the whole party. Some were to drive, others were to ride on
horseback, some acquaintances had been asked to join the
party. Besides the General and Polina, with the children and
their nurse, there were sitting in the study De Grieux, Mile.
Blanche, again wearing her riding-habit, her mother, the little
Prince, and a learned German traveller whom I had not seen
before.

Granny's chair was set down in the middle of the room, three
paces from the General. My goodness! I shall never forget
the sensation ! As we went in the General was describing some-
thing, while De Grieux was correcting him. I must observe
that Mile. Blanche and De Grieux had for the last few days
been particularly attentive to the little Prince, cl la barbe dtt
pauvre general, and the tone of the party was extremely gay

53

and genially intimate, though, perhaps, it was artificial. Seeing
Granny, the General was struck dumb. His mouth dropped
open and he broke off in the middle of a word. He gcized at
her open-eyed, as though spellbound by the eye of a basilisk.
Granny looked at him in silence, too, immovably, but what a
triumphant, challenging and ironical look it was! They gazed
at each other for ten full seconds in the midst of profound
silence on the part of all around them. For the first moment
De Grieux was petrified, but immediately afterwards a look of
extreme uneasiness flitted over his face. Mile. Blanche raised
her eyebrows, opened her mouth and gazed wildly at Granny.
The Prince and the learned German stared at the whole scene
in great astonishment. Polina's eyes expressed the utmost
wonder and perplexity, and she suddenly turned white as a
handkerchief; a minute later the blood rushed rapidly into her
face, flushing her cheeks. Yes, this was a cateistrophe for all
of them ! I kept turning my eyes from Granny to all surround-
ing her and back again. Mr. Astley stood on one side, calm and
polite as usual.

"Well, here I am! Instead of a telegram!" Grarmy broke
the silence by going off into a peal of laughter. "Well, you
didn't expect me?"

"Antonida Vassilyevna . . . Auntie . . . But how on
earth ..." muttered the unhappy General.

If Granny had remained silent for a few seconds longer, he
would, perhaps, have had a stroke.

"How on earth what? I got into the train and came. What's
the railway for? You all thought that I had been laid out, and
had left you a fortune? You see, I know how you sent tele-
grams from here. What a lot of money you must have wasted
on them ! They cost a good bit from here. I simply threw my
legs over my shoulders and came off here. Is this the French-
man? M. de Grieux, I fancy?"

"Otd, Madame," De Grieux responded; "et croyez, je suis si
enchtmte . . . voire sante . . . c'est im mirtzcle . . . vous voir
id . . . une swprise charmante. ..."

"Charmatnte, I daresay; I know you, you mummer. I
haven't this much faith in you," and she pointed her little
finger at him. "Who is this?" she asked, indicating Mile.
Blanche. The striking-looking Frenchwoman, in a riding-habit
with a whip in her hand, evidently impressed her. "Someone
living here? '

"This is Mile. Blanche de Cominges, and this is her mamma.

54

Madame de Cominges; they are staying in this hotel," 1
explained.

"Is the daughter married?" Granny questioned me without
:eremony.

"Mile, de Cominges is an unmarried lady," I answered,
purposely speaking in a low voice and as respectfully as
possible.

"Lively?"

"I do not understand the question."

"You are not dull with her? Does she understand Russian?
De Grieux picked it up in Moscow. He had a smattering of it."

I explained that Mile, de Cominges had never been in Russia.

"Bcmjowr," said Granny, turning abruptly to Mile. Blanche.

"Bonjcmr, tnadame." Mile. Blanche made an elegant and
ceremonious ciu^ey, hastening, under the cover of modesty
and poUteness, to express by her whole face and figure her
extreme astonishment at such a strange question and manner of
address.

"Oh, she casts down her eyes, she is giving herself airs and
graces; you can see the sort she is at once; an actress of some
kind. I'm stopping here below in the hotel," she said, turning
suddenly to the General. "I shaU be your neighbour. Are you
glad or sorry?"

"Oh, Auntie! do believe in my sincere feelings ... of
pleasure," the General responded. He had by now recovered
himself to some extent, and as, upon occasion, he could speak
appropriately and with dignity, and even with some pretension
to efEectiveness, he began displaying his gifts now. "We have
been so alarmed and upset by the news of yom: illness. . . .
We received such despairing telegrams, and all at once ..."

"Come, you are lying, 5rou are lying," Granny interrupted
at once.

"But how could you", — ^the General, too, made haste to
interrupt, raising his voice and trying not to notice the word
"lying" — "how could you bring yourself to undertake such a
journey? You must admit that at your age and in your state
of health ... at any rate it is all so unexpected that our
surprise is very natural. But I am so pleased . . . and we
all" (he began s milin g with an ingratiating and delighted air)
"will try our utmost tiiat you shall spend your season here as
agreeably as possible ..."

"Come, that's enough; that's idle chatter; you are talking
nonsense, as usual. I can dispose of my time for myself.

55

Though I've nothing against you, I don't bear a grudge. You
ask how I could come? What is there surprising about it? It
was the simplest thing. And why are you so surprised? How
are you, Praskovya? What do you do here?"

"How do you do. Granny?" said PoUna, going up to her.
"Have you been long on the journey?"

"Well, she's asked a sensible question — ^the others could say
nothing but oh and ah ! Why, you see, I lay in bed and lay in
bed and was doctored and doctored, so I sent the doctors away
and called in the sexton from St. Nicolas. He had cured a
peasant woman of the same disease by means of hayseed. And
he did me good, too. On the third day I was in a perspiration
aU day and I got up. Then my Germans gathered round
again, put on their spectacles and began to argue. 'If you were
to go abroad now,' said they, 'and take a course of the waters,
all your sjmiptoms would disappear.' And why shouldn't I?
I thought. The fools of Zazhigins began sighing and mocuiing:
'Where are you off to?' they said. Well, so here I am! It
took me a day to get ready, and the following week, on a
Friday, I took a maid, and Potapitch, and the footman,
Fyodor, but I sent Fyodor back from Berlin, because I saw he
was not wanted, and I could have come quite alone. I took a
special compartment and there are porters at aU the stations,
and for twenty kopecks they will carry you wherever you Uke.
I say, what rooms he has taken 1 " she said in conclusion, look-
ing about her. "How do you get the money, my good man?
Why, everything you've got is mortgaged. What a lot of
money you must owe to tibis Frenchman alone! I know all
about it; you see, I know all about it!"

"Oh, Auntie. . . ." said the General, all confusion. "I am
surprised. Auntie ... I imagine that I am free to act . . .
Besides, my expenses are not beyond my means, and we are
here ..."

"They are not? You say so! Then you must have robbed
your children of their last farthing — you, their trustee!"

"After that, after such words," began the General,
indignant, "I really don't know . . ."

"To be sure, you don't! I'll be bound you are always at
roulette here? Have you whistled it all away?"

The General was so overwhehned that he almost spluttered
in the rush of his feelings.

"Roulette! I? In my position ... I? Think what you
are saying, Auntie; you must still be unwell ..."

56

"Come, you are lying, you are lying. I'll be bound they
can't tear you away; it's all lies! I'll have a look to-day what
this roulette is like. You, Praskovya, tell me where to go and
what to see, and Alexey Ivanovitch here will show me, and
you, Potapitch, make a note of all the places to go to. What
is there to see here?" she said, addressing Polina again.

"Close by are the ruins of the castle; then there is the
Schlangenberg. ' '

"What is it, the Schlangenberg? A wood or what?"

"No, not a wood, it's a mountain; there is a peak there ..."

"What do you mean by a peak?"

"The very highest point on the mountain. It is an enclosed
place — ^the view from it is unique."

"What about carrying my chair up the mountain? They
wouldn't be able to drag it up, would they?"

"Oh, we can find porters," I answered.

At liiis moment, Fedosya, the' nurse, came up to greet
Granny and brought the General's children with her.

"Come, there's no need for kissing! I cannot bear kissing
children, they always have dirty noses. Well, how do you get
on here, Fedosya?"

"It's very, very nice here, Antonida Vassilyevna," answered
Fedosya. "How have you been, ma'am? We've been so
worried about you."

"I know, you are a good soul. Do you always have
visitors? " — she turned to Polina again. "Who is that wretched
Uttle rascal in spectacles?"

"Prince Nilsky," Polina whispered.

"Ah, a Russian. And I thought he wouldn't understand!
Perhaps he didn't hear. I have seen Mr. Astley already. Here
he is again," said Granny, catching sight of him. "How do
you do?" — she turned to him suddenly.

Mr. Astley bowed to her in silence.

"Have you no good news to tell me? Say something!
Translate that to him, Polina."

Polina translated it.

"Yes. That with great pleasure and delight I am looking
at you, and very glad that you are in good health," Mr. Astley
answered seriously, but with perfect readiness. It was trans-
lated to Granny and it was evident she was pleased.

"How well Englishmen always answer," she observed.
"That's why I always like Englishmen. There's no comparison
between them and Frenchmen! Come and see me," she said,

57

addressing Mr. Astley again. "I'll try not to worry you too
much. Translate that to him, and tell him that I am here
below — ^here below — do you hear? Below, below," she repeated
to Mr. Astley, pointing downwards.

Mr. Astley was extremely pleased at the invitation.

Granny looked Polina up and down attentively and with a
satisfied air.

"I was fond of you, Praskovya," she said suddenly. "You're
a fine wench, the best of the lot, and as for will — ^my good-
ness! Well, I have will too; turn round. That's not a false
chignon, is it?"

"No, Granny, it's my own."

"To be sure. I don't care for the silly fashion of the day.
You look very nice. I should fall in love with you if I were a
young gentleman. Why don't you get married? But it is
time for me to go. And I want to go out, for I've had nothing
but the train and the trailS . . . Well, are you still cross?"
she added, turning to the General.

"Upon my word, Auntie, what nonsense!" cried the
General, delighted. "I understand at your age ..."

"Cette vieille est tombee en eipfance," De Grieux whispered
to me.

"I want to see everj^hing here. Will you let me have Mexey
Ivanovitch?" Granny went on to the General.

"Oh, as much as you like, but I will m5rself . . . and
Polina, M. de Grieux ... we shall all think it a pleasure to
accompany you."

"Mais, madam-e, cela sera un ptaisir" . . . De Grieux
addressed her with a bewitching smile.

"A pMsir, to be sure; you are absurd, my good sir. I am
not going to give you any money, though," she added
suddenly. "But now to my rooms; I must have a look at them,
and then we'll go the round of everything. Come, lift me up."
Granny was lifted up again and we all flocked downstairs
behind her chair. The General walked as though stunned by
a blow on the head. De Grieux was considering something.
Mile. Blanche seemed about to remain, but for some reason
she made up her mind to come with the rest. The Prince
followed her at once, and no one was left in the General's
study but Madame de Cominges and the German.

58

CHAPTER X

AT watering-places and, I believe, in Europe generally,
hotel-keepers and ober-kellners, in assigning rooms to their
visitors, are guided not so much by the demands and desires
of the latter as by their own personal opinion of them, and,
one must add, they are rarely mistaken. But for some reason
I cannot explain, they had assigned Granny such a splendid
suite that they had quite overshot the mark. It consisted of four
splendidly furnished rooms with a bathroom, quarters for the
servants and a special room for the maid, and so on. Some
gramde duchesse really had been staying in those rooms the
week before, a fact of which the new occupant was informed
at once, in order to enhance the value of the apartments.
Granny was carried, or rather wheeled, through all the rooms,
and she looked at them attentively and severely. The ober-
kellner, an elderly man with a bald head, followed her respect-
fully at this first survey.

I don't know what they aU took Granny to be, but
apparently for a very important and, above all, wealthy lady.
They put down in the book at once: "Madame la gen^rale
princesse de Tofosyevitchev," though Granny had never been
a princess. Her servants, her special compartment in the train,
the mass of useless bags, portmanteaux, and even chests that
had come with Granny probably laid the foimdation of her
prestige; while her invalid-chair, her abrupt tone and voice,
her eccentric questions, which were made with the most un-
constrained air that would tolerate no contradiction — ^in short.
Granny's whole figure, erect, brisk, imperious — ^increased the
awe in which she was held by all. As she looked at the rooms.
Granny sometimes told them to stop her chair, pointed to some
object in the furniture and addressed unexpected questions to
the ober-heHmer, who still smiled respectfuUy, though he was
beginning to feel nervous. Granny put her questions in French,
which she spoke, however, rather badly, so that I usually trans-
lated. The ober-kellner's answers for the most part did not
please her and seemed unsatisfactory. And, indeed, she kept
asking about all sorts of things quite irrelevant. Suddenly, for
instance, stopping before a picture, a rather feeble copy of some
weD-known picture of a mythological subject, she would ask:

"Whose portrait is that?"

The ober-keUner replied that no doubt it was some countess.

59 <=

"How is it you don't know? You live here and don't know.
Why is it here? Why is she squinting? "

The aber-kellner could not answer these questions satis-
factorily, and positively lost his head.

"Oh, what a blockhead I" commented Granny, in Russian.

She was wheeled on. The same performance was repeated
with a Dresden statuette, which Granny looked at for a long
time, and then ordered them to remove, no one knew why.
Finally, she worried the ober-kellner about what the carpets
in the bedroom cost, and where they had been woven! The
ober-kellner promised to make inquiries.

"What asses," Granny grumbled, and concentrated her
whole attention on the bed. "What a gorgeous canopy! Open
the bed."

They opened the bed.

"More, more, turn it all over. Take off the pillows, the
pillows, lift up the feather-bed."

Everything was turned over. Granny examined it
attentively.

"It's a good thing there are no bugs. Take away all the
linen I Make it up with my linen and my pillows. But all this
is too gorgeous. Such rooms are not for an old womem like me.
I shall be dreary all alone. Alexey Ivanovitch, you must come
and see me very often when your lessons with tiie children are
over."

"I left the General's service yesterday," I answered, "and
am living in the hotel quite independently."

"How is that?"

"A German of high rank, a Baron, with his Baroness, came
here from Berlin the other day. I addressed him yesterday
in German without keeping to tiie Berlin accent."

"Well, what then?"

"He thought it an impertinence and complained to the
General, and yesterday the General discharged me."

"Why, did you swear at the Baron, or what? (though if you
had it wouldn't have mattered!)"

"Oh, no. On the contrary, the Baron raised his stick to
thrash me."

"And did you, sniveller, allow your tutor to be treated like
that?" she said suddenly, addressing the General; "and turned
him out of his place too! Noodles! you're all a set of noodles,
as I see."

"Don't disturb yourself. Auntie," said the General, with a

60

shade of condescending faniiliarity; "I can manage my own
business. Besides, Alexey Ivanovitch has not given you quite a
correct account of it."

"And you just put up with it?" — she turned to me.

"I meant to challenge the Baron to a duel," I answered, as
calmly and modestly as I could, "but the General opposed it."

"Why did you oppose it?" — Graimy turned to the General
again. ("And you can go, my good naan; you can come
when you are called," she said, addressing the ober-keUner;
"no need to stand about gaping. I can't endure this Niimberg
rabble!")

The man bowed and went out, not, of course, imderstanding
Granny's compliments.

"Upon my word. Auntie, surely a duel was out of the
question."

"Why out of the question? Men are all cocks; so they should
fight. You are aU noodles, I see, you don't know how to stand
up for your country. Come, tajse me up, Potapitch; see that
there are always two porters: engage them. I don't want more
than two. I shall only want them to carry me up and down
stairs, and to wheel me on the levels in the street. Explain that
to them; and pay them beforehand — ^they will be more
respectful. You will always be with me yourself, and you,
Alexey Ivanovitch, point out that Baron to me when we are
out: that I may have a look at the von Baron. Well, where is
the roulette?"

I explained that the roulette tables were in rooms in the
Casino. Then followed questions: Were there many of them?
Did many people play? Did they play aU day long? How was
it arranged? I answered at last that she had much better see
all this with her own eyes, and that it was rather difficult to
describe it.

"Well, then, take me straight there! You go first, Alexey
Ivanovitch!"

"Why, Auntie, don't you really mean to rest after your
journey?" the General asked anxiously. He seemed rather
flurried, and, indeed, they all seemed embarrassed and were
exchanging glances. Probably they all felt it rather risky and,
indeed, humihating to accompany Granny to the Casino, where,
of course, she might do something eccentric, and in public; at
the same time they all proposed to accompany her.

"Why should I rest? I am not tired and, besides, I've been
sitting still for three days. And then we will go and see the

6i

springs and medicinal waters; where are they? And then . . .
we'll go and see, what was it you said, Praskovya?— peak,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, Granny."

"Well, peak, then, if it is a peak. And what else is there
here?"

"There are a great many objects of interest, Granny," Polina
exerted herself to say.

"Why don't you know them! Marfa, you shall come with
me, too," she said, addressing her maid.

"But why should she come?" the General said fussily; "and
in fact it's out of the question, and I doubt whether Potapitch
will be admitted into the Casino."

"What nonsense! Am I to abandon her because she is a
servant? She's a human being, too; here we have been on our
travels for a week; she wants to have a look at things, too.
With whom could she go except me? She wouldn't dare show
her nose in the street by herself."

"But, Granny ..."

"Why, are you ashamed to be with me? Then stay at home;
you are not asked. Why, what a General! I am a General's
widow myself. And why should you all come trailing after me?
I can look at it all with Alexey Ivanovitch."

But De Grieux insisted that we should all accompany her,
and launched out into the most polite phrases about the
pleasure of accompanying her, and so on. We all started.

"Elle est fambee en mifanoe," De Grieux repeated to the
General; "seuk>, elle fera des biUses . . ." I heard nothing
more, but he evidently had some design, and, possibly, his
hopes had revived.

It was haJf a nule to the Casino. The way was through an
avenue of chestnuts to a square, going round which, they came
out straight on the Casino. The General was to some extent
reassured, for our procession, though somewhat eccentric, was,
nevertheless, decorous and presentable. And there was nothing
surprising in the fact of an invalid who could not walk putting
in an appearance at the Casino; but, anj^way, the General was
afraid of the Casino; why should an invaUd unable to walk, and
an old lady, too, go into the gambling saloon? Polina and Mile.
Blanche walked on each side of the bath-chair. Mile. Blanche
laughed, was modestly animated and even sometimes jested
very politely with Granny, so much so that the latter spoke of
her approvingly at last. Polina, on the other side, was obliged

62

to be continually answering Granny's innumerable questions,
such as: "Who was that passed? Who was that woman driving
past? Is it a big town? Is it a big garden? What are those
trees? What's that hill? Do eagles fly here? What is that
absurd-looking roof?" Mr. Astley walked beside me and whis-
pered that he expected a great deal from that morning. Pota-
pitch and Marfa walked in the background close behind the
bath-chair, Potapitch in his swallow-tailed coat and white tie,
but with a cap on his head, and Marfa (a red-faced maid-
servant, forty years old and begirming to turn grey) in a cap,
cotton gown, and creaking goatskin slippers. Granny turned to
them very often and addressed remarks to them. De Grieux
was talking with an air of determination. Probably he was
reassuring the General, evidently he was giving him some
advice. But Granny had already pronounced the fatal phrase :
"I am not going to give you money." Perhaps to De Grieux
this announcement sounded incredible, but the General knew
his aunt. I noticed that De Grieux and Mile. Blanche were
continually exchanging glances. I could distinguish the Prince
and the German traveller at the farther end of tihe avenue; they
had stopped, and were walking away from us.

Our visit to the Casino was a triumph. The porters and
attendants displayed the same deference as in the hotel. They
looked at us, however, with curiosity. Granny began by giving
orders that she should be wheeled through all the rooms. Some
she admired, others made no impression on her; she asked ques-
tions about them all. At last we came to the roulette room.
The lackeys, who stood Uke sentinels at closed doors, flung
the doors wide open as though they were impressed.

Granny's appearance at the roulette table made a profound
impression on the public. At the roulette tables and at the other
end of the room, where there was a table with tr&n^ et qiMranie,
there was a crowd of a hundred and fifty or two hundred
players, several rows deep. Those who had succeeded in
squeezing their way right up to the table, held fast, as they
always do, and would not give up their places to anyone until
they had lost; for simple spectators were not allowed to stand
at ttie tables and occupy the space. Though there were chairs
set round the table, few of the players sat down, especially
when there was a great crowd, because standing one could get
closer and consequently pick out one's place and put down
one's stake more conveniently. The second and the third rows
pressed up upon the first, waiting and watching for their turn;

63

but sometimes a hand would be impatiently thrust forward
through the first row to put down a stake. Even from the third
row people managed to seize chances of poking forward their
stakes; consequently every ten or even five minutes there was
some "scene" over disputed stakes at one end of the haU or
another. The police of the Casino were, however, fairly good.
It was, of course, impossible to prevent crowding; on tiie con-
trary, the owners were glad of the rush of people because it was
profitable, but eight croupiers sitting round the table kept a
vigilant watch on the stakes: they even kept count of them,
and when disputes arose they could settle them. In extreme
cases they called in the police, and the trouble was over in an
instant. There were police officers in plain clothes stationed
here and there among the players, so that they could not be
recognised. They were especially on the look-out for thieves
and professional pickpockets, who are very numerous at the
roulette tables, as it affords them excellent opportunity for
exercising their skill. The fact is, elsewhere thieves must pick
pockets or break locks, and such enterprises, when un-
successful, have a very troublesome ending. But in this case
the thief has only to go up to the roulette table, begin playing,
and all at once, opraily and publicly, take another person's
winnings and put liiem in his pocket. If a dispute arises, the
cheat insists loudly that the stake was his. If the trick is played
cleverly and the witnesses hesitate, the thief may often succeed
in carrying off the money, if the sum is not a very large one,
of course. In that case ttie croupiers or some one of the other
players are almost certain to have been keeping an eye on it.
But if the sum is not a large one, the real owner sometimes
actually declines to keep up the dispute, and goes away shrink-
ing from the scandal. But if they succeed in detecting a thief,
they turn him out at once with contumely.

All this Granny watched from a distance with wild curiosity.
She was much delighted at a thief's being turned out. Trenie
et qwcrcmie did not interest her very much; she was more
pleased at roulette and the rolling of the little ball. She evinced
a desire at last to get a closer view of the game. I don't
know how it happened, but the attendants and other officious
persons (principally Poles who had lost, and who pressed their
services on lucky players and foreigners of aU sorts) at once,
and in spite of the crowd, cleared a place for Granny in the very
middle of the table beside the chief croupier, and wheeled her
chair to it. A number of visitors who were not playing, but

64

watching the play (chiefly EngUshmen with their families), at
once crowded round the table to watch Granny from bdiind
the players. Numbers of lorgnettes were turned in her direc-
tion. The croupiers' expectations rose. Such an eccentric
person certainly seemed to promise something out of the
ordinary. An old woman of seventy, who could not walk, yet
wished to play, was, of course, not a sight to be seen every
day. I squeezed my way up to the table too, and took my stand
beside Granny. Potapitch and Marfa were left somewhere in
the distance among the crowd. The General, Polina, De
Grieux, and Mile. Blanche stood aside, too, among the
spectators.

At first Granny began looking about at the players. She
began in a half whisper asking me abrupt, jerky questions. Who
was that man and who was this woman ? She was particularly
delighted by a young man at the end of the table who was
playing for very high stakes, putting down thousands, and had,
as people whisp)ered around, already won as much as forty
thousand francs, which lay before him in heaps of gold and
banknotes. He was pale; his eyes glittered and his hands were
shaking; he was staking i.ow without counting, by handfuls,
and yet he kept on winning and winning, kept raking in the
money. The attendants hung about him solicitously, set a chair
for him, cleared a place roxmd him that he might have more
room, that he might not be crowded — all this in expectation of
a liberal tip. Some players, after they have won, tip the
attendants without counting a handful of coins in their joy.
A Pole had already established himself at his side, and was
deferentially but continually whispering to him, probably tell-
ing him what to stake on, advising and directing his play — of
course, he, too, expecting a tip later on ! But the player scarcely
looked at him. He staked at random and kept winning. He
evidently did not know what he was doing.

Granny watched him for some minutes.

"Tell him," Granny said suddenly, growing excited and
giving me a poke, "tell him to give it up, to take his money
quickly and go away. He'll lose it all directly, he'll lose it all! "
she urged, almost breathless with agitation. "Where's Pota-
pitch? Send Potapitch to him. Come, tell him, tell him," she
went on, poking me. "Where is Potapitch? Sortez! SortezJ"
— she began herself shouting to the young man.

I bent. down to her and whispered resolutely that she must
not shout like this here, that even talking aloud was forbidden,

65

because it hindered counting and that we should be turned out
directly.

"How vexatious! The man's lost I I suppose it's his own
doing. ... I can't look at him, it quite upsets me. What a
doltT" and Granny made haste to turn in another direction.

On the left, on the other side of the table, there was con-
spicuous among the players a young lady, and beside her a
sort of dwarf. Who this dwarf was, eind whether he was a
relation or brought by her for the sake of effect, I don't know.
I had noticed the lady before; she made her appearance at the
gambUng table every day, at one o'clock in the afternoon, and
went away exactly at two; she always played for an hour. She
was already known, and a chair was set for her at once. She
took out of her pocket some gold, some thousand-franc notes,
and began staking quietly, coolly, prudently, making pencil
notes on a bit of paper of the numbers about which the chances
grouped themselves, and trying to work out a sjretem. She
staked considerable sums. She used to win every day — one,
two, or at the most three thousand francs — ^not more, and in-
stantly went away. Granny scrutinised her for a long time.

"Well, that one won't lose! That one there won't lose!
Of what class is she? Do you know? Who is she?"

"She must be a Frenchwoman, of a certain class, you know,"
I whispered.

"Ah, one can tell the bird by its flight. One can see she has
a sharp claw. Explain to me now what every turn means and
how one has to bet I "

I explained as far as I could to Granny all the various points
on which one could stake : rouge et now, pair et impmr, manque
et passe, and finally the various subtleties in the S3^tem of
the numbers. Grajiny listened attentively, remembered, asked
questions, eind began to master it. One could point to examples
of every kind, so that she very quickly and readily picked up a
great deal.

"But what about zero?. You see that croupier, the curly-
headed one, the chief one, showed z6ro just now? And why
did he scoop up everything that was on the table? Such a heap,
he took it all for himself. What is the meaning of it?"

"Z^ro, Granny, means that the bank wins all. If the little
ball falls on z^ro, everything on the table goes to the bank. It is
true you can stake your money so as to keep it, but the bank
pays nothing."

"You don't say so! And shall I get nothing?"

66

"No, Granny, if before this you had staked on z6ro you would
have got thirty-five times what you staked."

"W^atl thirty-five times, and does it often turn up? Why
don't they stake on it, the fools."

"There are thirty-six chances against it. Granny."

"What nonsense. Potapitch! Potapitch! Stay, I've money
with me — ^here." She took out of her pocket a tightly packed
purse, and picked out of it a friedrich d'or. "Stake it on the
z^ro at once."

"Granny, zero has only just turned up," I said; "so now it
won't turn up for a long time. You will lose a great deal; wait
a Uttle, anjrway."

"Oh, nonsense; put it down!"

"As you please, but it may not turn up again tiU the evening.
You may go on staking thousands; it has happened."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense. If you are afraid of the wolf you
shouldn't go into the forest. What? Have I lost? Stake again ! "

A second friedrich d'or was lost: she staked a third. Granny
could scarcely sit still in her seat. She stared with feverish eyes
at the Uttle boll dancing on the spokes of the turning wheel. She
lost a third, too. Granny was beside herself, she could not sit
stiE, she even thumped on the table with her fist when the
croupier announced "trente-six" instead of the z6ro she was
expecting.

"There, look at it," said Granny angrily; "isn't that cursed
little z^ro coming soon? As sure as I'm alive, I'll sit here till
zdro does come ! It's that cursed curly-headed croupier's doing;
he'll never let it come ! Alexey Ivanovitch, stake two gold pieces
at once! Staking as much as you do, even if zero does come
you'll get nothing by it."

"Granny!"

"Stake, stake! it is not your money."

I staked two friedrichs d'or. The ball flew about the wheel for
a long time, at last it began dancing about the spokes. Granny
was nmnb with excitement, and squeezed my fingers, and dl
at once —

"Zero!" boomed the croupier.

"You see, you see!" — Graimy turned to me quickly, beam-
ing and delighted. "I told you so. The Lord Himself put it
into my head to stake those two gold pieces ! Well, how much
do I get now? Why don't they give it me? Potapitch, Marfa,
where are they? Where have all our people got to? Potapitch,
Potapitch!"

67 c*

"Granny, afterwards," I whispered; "Potapitch is at the
door, they won't let him in. Look, Granny, they are giving you
the money, take iti" ,A heavy roll of printed blue notes, worth
fifty friedrichs d'or, was thrust towards Granny and twenty
friedrich d'or were counted out to her. I scooped it all up in a
shovel and handed it to Granny.

"Ftdtes le jew, messieurs! Ftdtes le jeu. messieurs! Rien ne
va plus!" called the croupier, inviting the public to stake, and
preparing to turn the wheel.

"Heavens 1 we are too late. They're just going to turn it.
Put it down, put it down!" Granny urged me in a flurry.
"Don't dawdle, make haste 1" She was beside herself and
poked me with all her might.

"What am I to stake it on. Granny?"

"On zero, on z6ro! On z6ro again! Stake as much as pos-
sible! How much have we got altogether? Seventy friedrichs
d'or. There's no need to spare it. Stake twenty friedrichs
d'or at once."

"Think what you are doing, Granny! sometimes it does not
turn up for two hundred times running I I assure you, you may
go on staking your whole fortune."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense! Put it down! How your tongue
does wag! I know what I'm about." Graimy was positively
quivering with excitement.

"By the regulations it's not allowed to stake more than
twelve roubles on z^ro at once. Granny; here I have staked
that."

"Why is it not allowed? Aren't you lying? Monsieur!
Monsieur! " — she nudged the croupier, who was sitting near her
on the left, and was about to set tiie wheel turning. "Comhien
zero? Douze? Douze?"

I immediately interpreted the question in French.

"Old, madame," tiie croupier confirmed politely; "as the
winnings from no single stake must exceed four thousand florins
by the regulations," he added in explanation.

"Well, there's no help for it, stake twelve."

"Le jeu est fait," cried the croupier. The wheel rotated, and
thirty turned up. She had lost.

"Again, again, again! Stake again!" cried Granny. I no
longer resisted, and, shrugging my shoulders, staked another
twelve friedrichs d'or. The wheel turned a long time. Granny
was simply quivering as she watched the wheel. "Can she
really imagine that z6ro will win again?" I thought, looking at

68

her with wonder. Her face was beaming with a firm conviction
of winning, an unhesitating expectation that in another minute
they would shout z6ro. The ball jumped into the cage.

"Z6rol" cried the croupier.

"What! I !" Granny turned to me with intense triumph.

I was a gambler myself, I felt that at the moment my arms
and legs were trembhng, there was a throbbing in my head.
Of course, this was a rare chance that z6ro should have come up
three times in some dozen turns; but there was nothing par-
ticularly wonderful about it. I had myself seen z6ro turn up
three times runnmg two days before, and a gambler who had
been zealously noting down the lucky numbers, observed aloud
that, only the day before, zero had turned up only once in
twenty-four hours.

Granny's wirmings were counted out to her with particular
attention and deference as she had won such a large sum. She
received four hundred and twenty friedrichs d'or, that is, four
thousand florins and seventy friedrichs d'or. She was given
twenty friedrichs d'or in gold, and four thousand florins in
banknotes.

This time Greinny did not call Potapitch; she had other pre-
occupations. She did not even babble or quiver outwardly 1
She was, if one may so express it, quivering inwardly. She was
entirely concentrated on something, absorbed in one aim.

"Alexey Ivanovitch, he said that one could only stake four
thousand florins at once, didn't he? Come, take it, stake the
whole four thousand on the red," Granny commanded.

It was useless to protest; the wheel began rotating.

"Rouge/' the croupier proclaimed.

Again she had won four thousand florins, making eight in all.

"Give me four, and stake four again on red," Granny
conmianded.

Again I staked four thousand.

"Rouge," the croupier pronounced again.

"Twelve thousand altogether ! Give it me all here. Pour the
gold here into the purse and put away the notes. That's enough 1
Home I Wheel my chair out."

69

CHAPTER XI

THE chair was wheeled to the door at the other end of the
room. Granny was radiant. All our party immediately
thronged round her with congratulations. However eccentric
Granny's behaviour might be, her triumph covered a multitude
of sins, and the General was no longer afraid of compromising
himself in public by his relationship with such a strange woman.
With a condescending and familiarly good-humoured smile, as
though humouring a child, he congratulated Granny. He was,
however, evidently impressed, like all the other spectators.
People talked all round and pointed at Graimy. Many passed
by to get a closer view of her ! Mr. Astley was talking of her
aside, with two English acquaintances. Some majestic ladies
gazed at her with majestic amazement, as though at a marvel
. . . De Grieux positively showered congratulatioiis and smiles
upon her.

"Qti/e^ victoirei!" he said.

"Mais, Madame, c'etait du feu," Mile. Blanche commented,
with an ingratiating smile.

"Yes, I just went and won twelve thousand florins! Twelve,
indeed; what about the gold? With the gold it makes almost
thirteen. What is that in oiu: money? Will it be six thousand? "

I explained that it made more than seven, and in the present
state of exchange might even amount to eight.

"Well, that's something worth having, eight thousand! And
you stay here, you noodles, cind do nothing ! Potapitch, Marfa,
did you see?"

"My goodness! how did you do it. Ma'am? Eight thousand!"
exclaimed Marfa, wriggling.

"There! there's five gold pieces for you, here!"

Potapitch and Marfa flew to kiss her hand.

"And give the porters, too, a friedrich d'or each. Give it
them in gold, Alexey Ivanovitch. Why is that flunkey bowing
and the other one too? Are they congratulating me? Give them
a friedrich d'or too."

"Madame la princesse ... mm pamrre expatrii . . . mdhmr
contmuel . . . les princes russes sont si ginireux ..." A person
with moustaches and an obsequious smile, in a threadbare coat
and gay-coloured waistcoat, came cringing about Granny's
chair, waving his hat in his hand.

"Give him a friedrich d'or too. ... No, give him two; that's

70

enough, or there will be no end to them. Lift me up and carry
me out. Praskovya" — she turned to Polina Alexandrovna —
"I'll buy you a dress to-morrow, and I'll buy MUe. . . . what's
her name, MUe. Blanche, isn't it? I'll buy her a dress too.
Translate that to her, Praskovya 1 "

"Merd, Madame." MUe. Blanche made a grateful curtsey
while she exchanged an ironical smile with De Grieux and the
General. The General was rather embarrassed and was greatly
relieved when we reached the avenue.

"Fedosya — ^won't Fedosya be surprised," said Granny,
thinking of the General's nurse. "I must make her a present of
a dress. Hey, Alexey Ivanovitch, Alexey Ivanovitch, give this
to the poor man."

A man in rags, with bent back, passed us on the road, and
looked at us.

"And perhaps he is not a poor man, but a rogue. Granny."

"Give him a gulden, give it him!"

I went up to Sie man and gave it him. He looked at me in
wild amazement, but took the gulden, however. He smelt of
spirits.

"And you, Alexey Ivanovitch. Have you not tried your luck
yet?"

"No, Granny."

"But your eyes were burning, I saw them."

"I shall try. Granny, I certainly shaU later."

"And stake on zlro strsiight away. You will see ! How much
have you in hand?"

"Only twenty friedrichs d'or. Granny."

"That's not much. I will give you fifty friedrichs d'or. I will
lend it if you like. Here, take this roll — ^but don't you expect
anything, all the same, my good man, I am not going to give
you anything," she said, suddenly addressing the General.

The latter winced, but he said nothing. De Grieux frowned.

"Qua diable, c'est wne terrible vieille!" he muttered to the
General through his teeth.

"A beggar, a beggar, another beggar! " cried Granny. "Give
him a gulden, too, Alexey Ivanovitch."

This time it was a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg,
in a long-skirted blue coat and with a long stick in his hand. He
looked like an old soldier. But when I held out a gulden to him
he stepped back and looked at me angrily.

"Was ist's der Teufel," he shouted, following up with a
dozen oaths.

71

"Oh, he's a fool," cried Granny, dismissing hkn with a wave
of her hand. "Go on I I'm hungry! Now we'll have dinner
directly; then I'll rest a little, and back here again."

"You want to play again, Granny 1" I cried.

"What do you expect? That you should all sit here and sulk
while I watch you?"

"Mais, maSame — " De Grieux drew near — '-les chau^s
peuvent tourner, une seule m<mvmse chance et votis perdrez
tout . . . suHout avec votre jeu . . . C'est terrible!!'

"Vous perdrez ahsohtment," chirped Mile. Blanche.

"But what is it to do with all of you? I shouldn't lose your
money, but my own! And where is that Mr. Astley?" she
asked me.

"He stayed in the Casino, Granny."

"I'm sorry, he's such a nice man."

On reaching home Granny met the oher-kellner on the stairs,
called him and began bragging of her winnings; then she sent
for Fedosya, made her a present of three friedrichs d'or and
ordered dinner to be served. Fedosya and Marfa hovered over
her at dinner.

"I watched you, ma'am," Marfa cackled, "and said to
Potapitch, 'What does our lady want to do?' And the money
on the table — saints alive ! the money 1 I haven't seen so much
money in the whole of my Ufe, and all round were gentlefolk —
nothing but gentlefolk sitting. 'And wherever do all these
gentlefolk come from, Potapitch?' said I. May our Lady Her-
self help her, I thought. I was praying for you, ma'am, and
my heart was simply sinking, simply sinking; I was all of a
tremble. Lord help her, I thought, and here the Lord has sent
you luck. I've been trembling ever since, ma'am. I'm all of
a tremble now."

"Alexey Ivanovitch, after dinner, at four o'clock, get ready
and we'll go. Now good-bye for a time; don't forget to send for
a doctor for me. I must drink the waters, too. Go, or maybe
you'll forget."

As I left Granny I was in a sort of stupor. I tried to imagine
what would happen now to all our people and what turn things
would take. I saw clearly that they (especially the General) had
not yet succeeded in recovering from the first shock. The fact of
Granny's arrival instead of the telegram which they were
expecting from hour to hour to announce her death (and con-
sequently the inheritance of her fortune) had so completely
shattered the whole fabric of their plans and intentions that

72

Granny's further exploits at roulette threw them into positive
bewilderment and a sort of stupefaction seemed to have come
over all of them.

Meanwhile this second fact was almost more important than
the first; for though Granny had repeated twice that she would
not give the General any money, yet, who knows? — ^there was
no need to give up all hope yet. De Grieux, who was involved
in all the General's affairs, had not lost hope. I am convinced
that Mile. Blanche, also much involved in the General's affairs
(I should think so : to marry a General and with a considerable
fortune ! ), would not ha^^ given up hope, and would have tried
aU her fascinating arts upon Granny — ^in contrast with the
proud and incomprehensible Polina, who did not know how to
curry favour with anyone. But now, now that Granny had had
such success at roulette, now that Granny's personality had
shown itself so clearly and so typically (a refractory and im-
perious old lady, et tmnbde en mfmnce), now, perhaps, all was
lost. Why, she was as pleased as a child, so pleased that she
would go on tiU she was ruined and had lost everj^thing.
Heavens! I thought (and, God forgive me, with a malignant
laugh), why, every friedrich d'or Granny staked just now must
have been a fresh sore in the General's heart, must have mad-
dened De Grieux and infuriated Mile, de Cominges, who saw
the cup slipping from her lips. Another fact: even in her
triumph and joy of winning, when Granny was giving money
away to everyone, and taking every passer-by for a beggar,
even then she had let fall to the General, "I'm not going to give
you anything, though!" That meant that she had fastened
upon that idea, was sticking to it, had made up her mind about
it. There was danger! danger!

All these reflections were revolving in my mind as I mounted
the front stairs from Granny's apartments to my garret in the
very top storey. All this interested me strongly. Though, of
course, I could before have divined the strongest leading
motives prompting the actors before me, yet I did not know for
certain all the m37steries and intrigues of tiie drama. Polina had
never been fully open with me. Though it did happen at times
that she revealed her feelings to me, yet I noticed that almost
always after such confidences she would make fim of all she had
said, or would try to obscure the matter and put it in a different
light. Oh, she had hidden a great deal! In any case, I fore-
saw that the denouement of this mysterious and constrained
position was at hand. One more shock — and everjrthing would

73

be ended and revealed. About my fortunes, which were also
involved in aU this, I scarcely troubled. I was in a strange
mood: I had only twenty friedrichs d'or in my pocket; I was
in a foreign land without a job or means of livelihood, withxmt
hope, without prospects, and — I did not trouble my head about
it! If it had not been for the thought of Polina, I should have
abandoned myself to the comic interest of the approaching
catastrophe, and would have been shouting with laughter. But
I was troubled about Polina; her fate was being decided, I
divined that; but I regret to say that it was not altogether her
fate that troubled me. I wanted to fathom her secrets; I wanted
her to come to me and say: "I love you," and if not that, if
that was senseless insanity, then . . . well, what was there to
care about? Did I know what I wanted? I was like one
demented: all I wanted was to be near her, in the halo of her
glory, in her radiance, always, for ever, all my life. I knew
nothing morel And could I leave her?

In their passage on the third storey I felt as though something
nudged me. I turned roimd and, twenty paces or more from
me, I saw coming out of a door, Polina. She seemed waiting:
and as soon as she saw me beckoned to me.

"Polina Alexandrovna ..."

"Hush!" she said.

"Imagine," I whispered to her, "I felt as though someone
had nudged me just now; I looked round — ^you! It seems as
though there were a sort of electricity from youl"

"Take this letter," PoUna articulated anxiotisly with a frown,
probably not hearing what I had said, "and give it into Mr.
Astley's own hands at once. Make haste, I Ijeg you. There is
no need of an answer. He will ..."

She did not finish.

"Mr. Astley?" I repeated in surprise.

But Polina had already disappeared behind the door.

"Aha, so they are in correspondence!" I ran at once, of
course, to Mr. Astley; first to his hotel, where I did not find him,
then to the Casino, where I hurried through all the rooms: and
at last, as I was returning home in vexation, almost in despair,
I met him by chance, witti a party of Englishmen and English-
women on horseback. I beckoned to him, stopped him and gave
him the letter: we had not time even to exchange a glance.
But I suspect that Mr. Astley purposely gave rein to his horse.

Was I tortured by jealousy? An5:way, I was in an utterly
shattered condition. I did not even want to find out what th^

74

were writing to one another about. And so he was trasted by
her I "Her friend, her friend," I thought, "and that is clear
(and when has he had time to become her friend?), but is there
love in the case? Of course not," common-sense whispered to
me. But common-sense alone counts for little in such cases;
anyway, this, too, had to be cleared up. Things were growing
unpleasantly complicated.

Before I had time to go into the hotel, first the porter and
then the ober-keUner. coming out of his room, informed me that
I was wanted, that I had been asked for, three times they had
sent to ask: where was I? — ^that I was asked to go as quickly
as possible to the General's rooms. I was in the most disagree-
able frame of mind. In the General's room I found, besides
the General himself, De Grieux and Mile. Blanche — alone, with-
out her mother. The mother was evidently an official one, only
used for show. But when it came to real bimness she acted for
herself. And probably the woman knew little of her so-called
daughter's affairs.

They were, however, consulting warmly about something,
and the doors of the study were actually locked — ^which had
never happened before. Coming to the door, I heard loud
voices — De Grieux's insolent and malignant voice, Blanche's
shrill fury, and the General's pitiful tones, evidently defending
himself about something. Upon my enfrance they all, as it were,
pulled themselves up and restrained themselves. De Grieux
smoothed his hair and forced a smile into his angry face — ^that
horrid official French smile which I so detest. The crushed
and desperate General tried to assume an air of dignity, but it
was a mechanical effort. Only Mile. Blanche's countenjince,
blazing with anger, scarcely changed. She only ceased speak-
ing while she fixed her eyes upon me in impatient expectation.
I may mention that hitherto she had freated me with extra-
ordinary casualness, had even refused to respond to my bows,
and had simply declined to see me.

"Alexey Ivanovitch," the General began in a soft and molli-
fying tone; "allow me to tell you that it is strange, exceedingly
strange ... in fact, yoixr conduct in regard to me and my
family ... in fact, it is exceedingly strange ..."

"Eh! ce m'esi pas ga," De Grieux interposed, with vexation
and contempt. (There's no doubt he was the leading spirit.)
"Mem cher monsiew, twire cher general se trompe, in taking up
this tone" (I franslate the rest of his speech in Russian), "but
he meant to say . . . that is to warn you, or rather to beg

75

you most earnestly not to ruin him — ^yes, indeed, not to ruin
him I I make use of that expression."

"But how, how?" I interrapted.

"Why, you are undertaking to be the guide (or how shall I
express it?) of this old woman, cette pcmvre terrible vieill&"r-
De Grieux himself hesitated — "but you know she'll lose every-
thing; she will gamble away her whole fortune! You know
yourself, you have seen yourself, how she plays I If she begins
to lose; she will never leave off, from obstinacy, from anger,
and will lose everything, she will gamble away everything, and
in such cases one can never regain one's losses and then . . .
then . . ."

"And then," the General put in, "then you will ruin the
whole family ! I and my family are her heirs, she has no nearer
relations. I tell you openly : my affairs are in a bad way, a very
bad way. You know my position to some extent ... If she
loses a considerable sum or even (Lord help us!) her whole
fortune, what will become of me, of my children!" (The
General looked round at De Grieux.) "Of me." (He looked
round at Mile. Blanche, who turned away from him with con-
tempt.) "Alexey Ivanovitch, save us, save us! . . ."

"But how. General, how, how can I? . . . What influence
have I in the matter?"

"Refuse, refuse, give her up! . . ."

"Then someone else will turn up," I said.

"Ce n'est pas ga, ce n'est pas ga," De Grieux interrupted
again, "qtte dmbie! No, don't desert her, laoit at least advise
her, dissuade her, draw her away . . . don't let her play too
much, distract her in some way."

"But how can I do that? If you would undertake the task
yourself, M. de Grieux," I added, as naively as I could.

Here I caught a rapid, fiery, questioning glance from Mile.
Blanche at M. de Grieux. And in De Grieux's own face there was
something peculiar, something he could not himself disguise.

"The point is, she won't accept me now!" De Grieux cried,
with a wave of his hand. "If only . . . later on . . ."

De Grieux looked rapidly and meaningly at Mile. Blanche.

"0, mon che>r M. Alexis, soyez si hon." Mile. Blanche her-
self took a step towards me with a most fascinating smile, she
seized me by both hands and pressed them warmly. Damn it
all ! That diabolical face knew how to change completely in
one moment. At that instant her face was so imploring, so
sweet, it was such a child-like and even mischievous smile; at

76

the end of the phrase she gave me such a sly wink, unseen by
all the rest; she meant to do for me completely, and it was
successfully done; only it was horribly coarse.

Then the General leapt up, positively leapt up. "Alexey
Ivanovitch, forgive me for beginning as I did just now. I did
not mean that at all. ... I beg you, I beseech you, I bow
down before you in Russian style — ^you alone, you alone can
save us. Mile, de Cominges and I implore you — ^you under-
stand, you understand, of course." He besought me, indicat-
ing Mile. Blanche with his eyes. He was a very pitiful figure.

At that instant there came three subdued and respectful
knocks at the door; it was opened — ^the corridor attendant was
knocking and a few steps behind him stood Potapitch. They
came with messages from Granny; they were charged to find
and bring me at once. "She is angry," Potapitch informed me.

"But it is only half-past three."

"She could not get to sleep; she kept tossing about, and then
at last she got up, sent for her chair and for you. She's at the
front door now."

"Quelle megere," cried De Grieux.

I did, in fact, find Granny on the steps, out of all patience
at my not being there. She could not wait till four o'clock.

"Come," she cried, and we set off again to roulette.

CHAPTER XII

GRANNY was in an impatient and irritable mood; it was
evident that roulette had made a deep impression on her
mind. She took no notice of anything else and was altogether
absent-minded. For instance, she asked me no questions on the
road as she had done before. Seeing a luxurious carriage whirl-
ing by, she was on the point of raising her hand and asking:
W[iat is it? Whose is it? — but I believe she did not hear what I
answered: her absorption was continually interrupted by
abrupt and impatient gesticulations. When I pointed out to
her Baron and Baroness Burmerhelm, who were approaching
the Casino, she looked absent-mindedly at them and said, quite
indifferently, "Ah!" and, turning round quickly to Potapitch
and Marfa, who were walking behind her, snapped out to
them —

"Why are you hanging upon us? We can't take you every

77

time! Go home! You and I are enough," she added, when
they had hurriedly turned and gone home.

They were akeady expecting Granny at the Casino. They
immediately made room for her in the same place, next to the
croupier. I fancy that these croupiers, who are always so
strictiy decorous and appear to be ordinary officials who are
absolutely indifferent as to whether the bank wins or loses, are
by no means so unconcerned at the bank's losses and, of course,
receive instructions for attracting players and for augmenting
the profits — for which they doubtless receive prizes and bonuses.
They looked upon Granny, anyway, as their prey.

Then just what we had expected happened.

This was how it was.

Granny pounced at once on z&ro and immediately ordered
me to stake twelve friedrichs d'or. She staked once, twice,
three times — zero never turned up.

"Put it down! Put it down!" Granny nudged me, im-
patiently. I obeyed.

"How many times have we staked?" she asked at last,
grinding her teeth with impatience.

"I have staked twelve times, Granny. I have put down a
hundred and forty-four friedrichs d'or. I tell you. Granny,
very likely till evening ..."

"Hold your tongue!" Granny interrupted. "Stake on z6ro,
and stake at once a thousand gulden on red. Here, take the
note."

Red won, and zero failed once more; a thousand gulden was
gained.

"You see, you see!" whispered Granny, "we have gained
almost all that we have lost. Stake again on z6ro; we'll stake
ten times more and then give it up."

But the fifth time Granny was thoroughly sick of it.

"The devil take that filthy z^ro. Come, stake the whole
four thousand gulden on the red," she commanded jne.

"Granny! it wiU be so much; why, what if red does not
turn up!" I besought her; but Granny almost beat me. (In-
deed, she nudged me so violently that she might almost be said
to have attacked me.) There was no help for it. I staked on
red the whole four thousand won that morning. The wheel
turned. Granny sat calmly and proudly erect, never doubting
that she would certainly win.

"Zdro!" boomed the croupier.

At first Granny did not understand, but when she saw the

78

croupier scoop up her four thousand gulden, together with
everything on the table, and learned that z6ro, which had not
turned up for so long and on which we had staked in vain
almost two hundred friedrichs d'or, had, as though to spite her,
turned up just as Granny was abusing it, she groaned and flung
up her hands in view of the whole hall. People around actually
laughed.

"Holy saints! The cursed thing has turned upl" Granny
wailed, "the hateful, hateful thing! That's your doing! It's
all your doing" — she pounced upon me furiously, pushing me.
"It was you persuaded me."

"Granny, I talked sense to you; how can I answer for
chance?"

"I'll chance you," she whispered angrily. "Go away."

"Good-bye, Granny." I turned to go away.

"Alexey Ivanovitch, Alexey Ivanovitchl stop. Where are
you off to? Come, what's the matter, what's the matter? Ach,
he's in a rage! Stupid, come, stay, stay; come, don't be angry;
I am a fool myself I Come, tell me what are we to do now! "

"I won't undertake to tell you, Granny, because you will
blame me. Play for yourself, tell me and I'll put down the
stakes."

"Well, weUl Come, stake another four thousand gulden
on red! Here, take my pocket-book." She took it out of her
pocket and gave it me. "Come, make haste and take it, there's
twenty thousand roubles sterling in it."

"Granny," I mmmured, "such stakes ..."

"As sure as I am alive, I'll win it back. . . . Stake."

We staked and lost.

"Stake, stake the whole eight!"

"You can't. Granny, four is the highest stake! . . ."

"WeU, stake four!"

This time we won. Granny cheered up.

"You see, you see," she nudged me; "stake four again!"

She stciked — she lost; then we lost again and again.

"Granny, the whole twelve thousand is gone," I told her.

"I see it's all gone," she answered with the calm of fury,
if I may so express it. "I see, my good friend, I see," she
muttered, with a fixed, as it were, absent-minded stare. "Ech,
as sure I am aUve, stake another four thousand gulden!"

"But there's no money. Granny; there are some of our
Russian five per cents and some bills of exchange of some
sort, but no money."

79

"And in the purse?"

"There's some small change. Granny."

"Are there any money-changers here? I was told one could
change any of our notes," Granny inquired resolutely.

"Oh, as much as you like, but what you'll lose on the
exchange . . . would horrify a Jew!"

"Nonsense I I'll win it aU back. Take me! Call those
blockheads!"

I wheeled away the chair; the porters appeared and we went
out of the Casino.

"Make haste, make haste, make haste," Granny com-
manded. "Show us the way, Alexey Ivanovitch, and take us
the nearest . . . Is it far?"

"Two steps. Granny."

But at the turning from the square into the avenue we were
met by our whole party: the General, De Grieux, Mile.
Blanche and her mamma. Polina Alexandrovna was not with
them, nor Mr. Astley either.

"Well! Don't stop us!" cried Granny. "Well, what do
you want? I have no time to spare for you now!"

I walked behind; De Grieux ran up to me.

"She's lost all she gained this morning and twelve thousand
gulden as well. We are going to change some five per cents,"
I whispered to him quickly.

De Grieux stamped and ran to tell the General. We went
on wheeling Granny.

"Stop, stop! " the General whispered to me frantically.

"You try stopping her," I whispered.

"Auntie!" said the General, approaching, "Auntie ... we
are just ... we are just . . ."his voice quivered and failed
him, "hiring a horse and driving into the country ... a most
exquisite view . . . the peak . . . We were coming to invite
you."

"Oh, bother you and your peak." Granny waved him off
irritably.

"There are trees there ... we will have tea . . ." the
General went on, utterly desperate.

"NcM(s boirons du hit, sur I'herbe fraiche." added De
Grieux, with ferocious fury.

Dm lait, de I'herbe frdche, that is the Paris bourgeois notion
of the ideally idyllic; that is, as we all know, his conception
of natwe et la verite!

"Oh, go on with you and your milk! Lap it up yourself;

80

it gives me the bellyache. And why do you pester me?" cried
Granny. "I tell you I've no time to waste."

"It's here, Granny," I said; "it's here!"

We had reached the house where the bank was. I went in
to change the notes; Granny was left waiting at the entrance;
De Grieux, the General and Blanche stood apart waiting, not
knowing what to do. Granny looked wrathfully at them, and
they walked away in the direction of the Casino.

They offered me such ruinous terms that I did not accept
them, and went back to Granny for instructions.

"Ah, the brigands!" she cried, flinging up her hands.
"Well, never mind! Change it," she cried resolutely; "stay,
call the banker out to me ! "

"One of the clerks. Granny, do you mean?"

"Yes, a clerk, it's aU the same. Ach, the brigands!"

The clerk consented to come when he learned that it was
an invalid and aged countess, unable to come in, who was ask-
ing for him. Granny spent a long time loudly and angrily
reproaching him for swindling her, and haggled with him in a
mixture of Russian, French and German, while I came to the
rescue in translating. The grave clerk listened to us in silence
and shook his head. He looked at Granny with an intent stare
that was hardly respectful; at last he began smiling.

"Well, get along with you," cried Granny. "Choke your-
self with the money! Change it with him, AJexey Ivanovitch;
there's no time to waste, or we would go elsewhere. . . ."

"The clerk says that other banks give even less."

I don't remember the sums exactly, but the banker's charges
were terrible. I received close upon twelve thousand florins in
gold and notes, took the account and carried it to Granny.

"Well, well, well, it's no use counting it," she said, with a
wave of her hand. "Make haste, make haste, make haste!"

"I'll never stake again on that damned z6ro nor on the
red either," she pronounced, as she was wheeled up to the
Casino.

This time I did my very utmost to impress upon her the
necessity of staking smaller sums, trying to persuade her that
with the change of luck she would always be able to increase
her stake. But she was so impatient that, though she agreed
at first, it was impossible to restrain her when the play had
begun; as soon as she had won a stake of ten, of twenty
friedrichs d'ors

"There, you see, there, you see,' she would begin nudging

8i

me; "there, you see, we've won; if only we had staked four
thousand instead of ten, we should have won four thousand,
but, as it is, what's the good? It's all your doing, all your
doing 1"

And, vexed as I felt, watching her play, I made up my mind
at last to keep quiet and to give no more advice.

Suddenly De Grieux skipped up.

The other two were close by; I noticed Mile. Blanche stand-
ing on one side with her mother, exchanging amenities with the
Prince. The General was obviously out of favour, almost
banished. Blanche would not even look at him, though he was
doing his utmost to cajole her ! The poor Genered ! He flushed
and grew pale by turns, trembled and could not even follow
Granny's play. Blanche and the Prince finally went away; the
General ran after them.

"Madame, ma,dame," De Grieux whispered in a honeyed
voice to Granny, squeezing his way close up to her ear.
"Madame, such stakes do not answer. . . . No, no, it's
impossible . . ."he said, in broken Russian. "No!"

"How, then? Come, show me!" said Granny, turning to
him.

De Grieux babbled something rapidly in French, began
excitedly advising, said she must wait for a chance, began
reckoning some numbers. . . . Granny did not understand a
word. He kept turning to me, for me to translate; tapped the
table with his fingers, pointed; finally took a pencil, and was
about to reckon something on paper. At last Granny lost
patience.

"Come, get away, get away! You keep talkmg nonsense!
'Madame, madame,' he doesn't understand it himself; go
away."

"Mais, madame," De Grieux murmured, and he began once
more showing and explaining.

"Well, stake once as he says," Granny said to me; "let us
see: perhaps it really will answer."

All De Grieux wanted was to dissuade her from staking large
sums; he suggested that she should stake on numbers, either
individually or collectively. I staked as he directed, a friediich
d'or on each of the odd numbers in the first twelve and five
friedrichs d'or respectively on the groups of numbers from
twelve to eighteen and from eighteen to twenty-four, staking in
all sixteen friedrichs d'or.

The wheel turned.

83

"Z6ro," cried the croupier.

We had lost everything.

"You blockhead 1" cried Granny, addressing De Grieux.
"You scoundrelly Frenchman! So this is how he advises, the
monster. Go away, go away! He knows nothing about it
and comes fussing round!"

Fearfully offended, De Grieux shrugged his shoulders, looked
contemptuously at Graimy, and walked away. He felt ashamed
of having interfered; he had been in too great a hurry.

An hour later, in spite of all our efforts, we had lost every-
thing.

"Home," cried Granny.

She did not utter a single word till we got into the avenue.
In the avenue and approaching the hotel she began to break
into exclamations:

"What a fool! What a silly fool! You're an old fool, you
are!"

As soon as we got to her apartments —

"Tea!" cried Grarmy. "Ajid pack up at once! We are
going!"

"Where does your honour mean to go?" Marfa was
begiiming.

"What has it to do with you? Mind your own business!
Potapitch, pack up everything: all the luggage. We are going
back to Moscow. I have thrown away fifteen thousand
roubles!"

"Fifteen thousand, madame! My God!" Potapitch cried,
flinging up his hands with deep feeling, probably meaning to
humour her.

"Come, come, you fool ! He is beginning to whimper ! Hold
your tongue! Pack up! The biU, make haste, make haste!"

"The next train goes at half-past nine. Granny," I said, to
check her furore.

"And what is it now?"

"Half -past seven."

"How annoying! Well, it doesn't matter! Alexey Ivano-
vitch, I haven't a farthing. Here are two more notes. Run
there and change these for me too. Or I have nothing for the
journey."

I set off. Returning to the hotel half an hour later, I found
our whole party at Granny's. Learning that Granny was going
off to Moscow, they seemed to be even more upset than by her
losses. Even though her going might save her property, what

83

was to become of the General? Who would pay De Grieux?
Mile. Blanche would, of course, decline to wait for Granny to
die and would certainly now make up to the Prince or to some-
body else. They were all standing before Granny, trying to
console her and persuade her. Again Polina was not there.
Granny was shouting at them furiously.

"Let me alone, you devils! What business is it of yours?
Why does that goat's-beard come forcing himself upon me?"
she cried at De Grieux; "and you, my fine bird?" she cried,
addressing Mile. Blanche, "what are you after?"

"Diantre!" whispered Mile. Blanche, with an angry flash
of her eyes, but suddenly she burst out laughing and went out
of the room.

"Elle vivra cewt ans!" she called to the Genend, as she went
out of the door.

"Ah, so you are reckoning on my death?" Granny yelled to
the General. "Get away! Turn them all out, Alexey Ivano-
vitch! What business is it of yours? I've fooled away my
own money, not yours!"

Tlje General shrugged his shoulders, bowed and went out.
De Grieux followed Mm.

"Call Praskovya," Granny told Marfa.

Five minutes later Marfa returned with Polina. All this
time Polina had been sitting in her own room with the children,
and I fancy had purposely made up her mind not to go out all
day. Her face was serious, sad and anxious.

"Praskovya," began Granny, "is it true, as I learned by
accident just now, that that fool, your stepfather, means to
marry that silly feather-head of a Frenchwoman — an actress is
she, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"

"I don't know anything about it for certain. Granny,"
answered Polina, "but from the words of Mile. Blanche her-
self, who does not feel it necessary to conceal anything, I
conclude . . ."

"Enough," Granny broke in vigorously, "I understand! I
always reckoned that he was capable of it and I have always
thought him a most foolish and feather-headed man. He thinks
no end of himself, because he is a General (he was promoted
from a Colonel on retiring), and he gives himself airs. I know,
my good girl, how you kept sending telegram after telegram to
Moscow, to ask if your old Granny would soon be laid out.
They were on the look-out for my money; without money that
nasty hussy, what's her name — de Cominges — wouldn't take

84

him for her footman, especially with his false teeth. She has
a lot of money herself, they say, lends at interest, has made a
lot. I am not blaming you, Praskovya, it wasn't you who sent
the telegrams; and I don't want to remember the past, either.
I know you've got a bad temper — a wasp! You can sting to
hurt; but I'm sorry for you because I was fond of your mother,
Katerina. Well, you throw up everjTthing here and come with
me. You've nowhere to go, you know; and it's not fitting
for you to be with them now. Stop!" cried Granny, as Polina
was about to speak; "I've not finished. I ask nothing of you.
As you know, I have in Moscow a palace; you can have a whole
storey to yourself and not come and see me for weeks at a time
ii my temper does not suit youl Well, will you or not?"

"Let me ask you first: do you really mean to set off at
once?"

"Do you suppose I'm joking, my good girl ! I've said I'm
going and I'm going. I've wasted fifteen thousand roubles to-
day over your damned roulette. Five years ago I promised to
rebuild a wooden church with stone on my estate near Moscow,
and instead of that I've thrown away my money here. Now,
my girl, I'm going home to build the ehurch."

"And the waters. Granny? You came to drink the waters?"

"Bother you and the waters, too. Don't irritate me, Pras-
kovya; are you doing it on purpose? TeU me, will you come
or not?"

"I thank you very, very much," Polina began, with feeling,
"for the home you offer me. You have guessed my position
to some extent. I am so grateful to you that I shall perhaps
come to you soon; but now there are reasons . . . important
reasons . . . and I can't decide at once, on the spur of the
moment. If you were staying only a fortnight . . ."

"You mean you won't?"

"I mean I can't. Besides, in any case I can't leave my
brother and sister, as ... as ... as it may actually happen
that they may be left abandoned, so ... if you would take
me with the children. Granny, I certainly would come, and,
believe me, I would repay you for it!" she added warmly;
"but without the children I can't come. Granny."

"Well, don't whimper" (Polina had no intention of whimper-
ing — ^indeed, I had never seen her cry). "Some place will be
foimd for the chickens, my henhouse is big enough. Besides,
it is time they were at school. Well, so you are not coming
now! Well, Praskovya, mind! I wished for your good, but

85

I know why you won't come ! I know all about it, Praskovya.
That Frenchman will bring you no good."

Polina flushed crimson. I positively shuddered. (Everyone
knows cdl about it. I am the only one to know nothing ! )

"Come, come, don't frown. I am not going to say anything
more. Only take care no harm comes of it, understand. You
are a clever wench; I shall be sorry for you. Well, that's
enough. I should not like to look on you as on the others 1
Go along, good-bye!"

"I'll come to see you off," said Polina.

"There's no need, don't you interfere; I am sick of you all."

Polina was kissing Granny's hand, but the latter pulled it
away and kissed her on the cheek.

As she passed me, Polina looked at me quickly and
immediately turned away her eyes.

"Well, good-bye to you, too, Alexey Ivanovitch, there's only
an hour before tiie train starts, and I think you must be tired
out with me. Here, take these fifty pieces of gold."

"I thank you very much. Granny; I'm ashamed . . ."

"Come, come! " cried Graimy, but so vigorously and angrily
that I dared say no more and took it.

"When you are running about Moscow without a job come
to me: I will give you some introductions. Now, get along
with you!"

I went to my room and lay down on my bed. I lay there
for half an hour on my back, with my hands clasped behind
my head. The catastrophe had come at last, I had something
to think about. I made up my mind to talk earnestly to Polina.
The nasty Frenchman ! So it was true then ! But what could
there be at the bottom of it? Polina and De Grieux ! Heavens !
what a pair!

It was all simply incredible. I suddenly jumped up, beside
myself, to look for Mr. Astley, and at aU costs to make him
speak out. No doubt in this matter, too, he knew more than
I did. Mr. Astley? He was another riddle to me!

But suddenly there was a tap at my door. I looked up. It
was Potapitch.

"Alexey Ivanovitch, you are wanted to come to my lady!"

"What's the matter? Is she setting off? The train does not
start for twenty minutes."

"She's uneasy, she can't sit still. 'Make haste, make haste! '
she says, meaning to fetch you, sir. For Christ's sake, don't
delay."

86

I ran downstairs at once. Granny was being wheeled ovrt.
into the passage, her pocket-book was in her hand.

"Alexey Ivanovitch, go on ahead; we're coining,"

"Where, Granny?"

"As sure as I'm aiive, I'll win it back. Come, march, don't
ask questions I Does the play go on there till midnight?"

I was thunderstruck. I thought a moment, but at once made
up my mind.

"Do as you please, Antonida Vassilyevna, I'm not coming."

"What's that for? What now? Have you all eaten too
many pancakes, or what?"

"Do as you please, I should blame myself for it afterwards;
I won't. I won't take part in it or look on at it; spare me,
Antonida Vassilyevna. Here are your fifty friedrichs d'or
back; good-bye!" And, laying the fifty friedrichs d'or on the
Uttle table near which Graimy's chair was standing, I bowed
and went out.

"What nonsense!" Granny shouted after me. "Don't come
if you don't want to, I can find the way by myself ! Potapitch,
come with me! Come, hft me up, carry me!"

I did not find Mr. Astley and returned home. It was late,
after midnight, when I learned from Potapitch how Granny's
day ended. She lost all that I had changed for her that evening
— ^that is, in Russian money, another ten thousand roubles.
The little Pole, to whom she had given two friedrichs d'or the
day before, had attached himself to her and had directed her
play the whole time. At first, before the Pole came, she had
made Potapitch put down the stakes, but soon she dismissed
him; it was at that moment the Pole turned up. As ill-luck
would have it, he understood Russian and babbled away in a
mixture of three languages, so that they understood each other
after a fashion. Granny abused him mercilessly the whole time;
and though he incessantly "laid himself at his lady's feet,"
"yet he couldn't be compared with you, Alexey Ivanovitch,"
said Potapitch. "She treated you Mke a gemiieman, while the
other — I saw it with my own eyes, God strike me dead — stole
her money oflE the table. She caught him at it herself twice.
She did give it to him with all sorts of names, sir, even pulled
his hair once, upon my word she did, so that folks were laugh-
ing round about. She's lost everything, sir, everything, all you
changed for her; we brought her back here — she only asked for
a drink of water, crossed herself and went to bed. She's worn
out, to be sure; she fell asleep at once. God send her heavenly

87

dreams. Ochl these foreign parts!" Potapitch wound up. "I
said it would lead to no good. If only we could soon be back
in Moscow! We'd everything we wanted at home in Moscow:
a garden, flowers such as you don't have here, fragrance, the
apples are swelUng, plenty of room everywhere. No, we had
to come abroad. Oh, oh, oh , . ."

CHAPTER XIII

NOW almost a whole month has passed since I touched
these notes of mine, which were begun under the influence
of confused but intense impressions. The catastrophe which I
felt to be approaching has actually come, but in a form a
hundred times more violent and startling than I had expected.
It has aU been something strange, grotesque and even tragic —
at least for me. Several things have happ>ened to me that were
almost miraculous; that is, at least, how I look upon them to
this day — ^though from another point of view, particularly in
the whirl of events in which I was involved at that time,
they were only somewhat out of the confunon. But what is
most marvellous to me is my own attitude to all these events.
To this day I cannot understand myself, and it has all floated
by like a dream — even my passion — it was violent and sincere,
but . . . what has become of it now? It is true that some-
times the thought flashes through my brain: "Wasn't I out
of my mind then, and wasn't I all that time somewhere in a
madhouse and perhaps I'm there now, so that was all my fancy
and still is my fancy . . ." I put my notes together and read
them over. (Who knows — perhaps to convince myself that I
did not write them in a madhouse.) Now I am entirely alone.
Autumn is coming on and the leaves are turning yellow. I'm
still in this dismal little town (oh, how dismal the httle German
towns are!), and instead of considering what to do next, I go
on living under the influence of the sensations I have just
passed toough, under the influence of memories still fresh,
under the influence of the whirl of events which caught me up
and flung me aside again. At times I fancy that I am still
caught up in that whirlwind, that that storm is still raging,
canying me along with it, and again I lose sight of all order
and measure and I whirl round and round again. . . .

88

However, I may, perhaps, leave off whirling and settle down
in a way if, so far as I can, I put clearly before my mind all the
incidents of the past month. I feel drawn to my pen again.
Besides, I have sometimes nothing at all to do in the evenings.
I am so hard up for something to do that, odd as it seems, 1
even take from the scurvy lending library here the novels of
Paul de Kock (in a German translation), though I can't endure
them; yet I read them and wonder at myself. It is as though
I were afraid of breaking the spell of the recent past by a
serious book or any serious occupation. It is as though that
grotesque dream, with all the impressions left by it, was so
precious to me that I am afraid to let anj^thing new touch upon
it for fear it should all vanish in smoke. Is it all so precious
to me? Yes, of course it is precious. Perhaps I shall remember
it for forty years . . .

And so I take up my writing again. I can give a brief
account of it to some extent now: the impressions are not at
all the same.

In the first place, to finish with Granny. The following day
she lost everything. It was what was bound to happen. When
once anyone is started upon that road, it is Uke a man in a
sledge fl5ang down a snow mountain more and more swiftly.
She played all day till eight o'clock in the evening; I was not
present and only know what happened from what I was told.

Potapitch was in attendance on her at the Casino all day.
Several Poles in succession guided Granny's operations in the
course of the day. She began by dismissing the Pole whose hair
she had pulled the day before and taking on another, but he
turned out almost worse. After dismissing the second, and
accepting again the first, who had never le'ft her side, but had
been squeezing himself in behind her chair and continually
poking his head in during the whole period of his disgrace, she
sank at last into complete despair. The second Pole also refused
to move away; one stationed himself on her right and the other
on her left. They were abusing one another the whole time
and quarrelling over the stakes and the game, calling each other
"Imdak" and other Polish civilities, making it up again,
putting down money recklessly and playing at random. When
they quarrelled they put the money down regardless of each
other — one, for instance, on the red and the other on the black.
It ended in their completely bewildering and overwhelming
Granny, so that at Icist, almost in tears, she appealed to the

89

old croupier, begging him to protect her and to send them
away. They were, in fact, immediately turned out in spite
of their outcries and protests; they both shouted out at once
and tried to prove that Granny owed them something, that she
had deceived them about something and had treated them
basely and dishonourably. The luckless Potapitch told me all
this the same evening almost with tears, and complained that
they stuffed their pockets with money, that he himself had
seen them shamele^y steal and continually thrust the money
in their pockets. One, for instance, would beg five friedrichis
d'or for his trouble and begin putting them down on the spot
side by side with Granny's stakes. Graimy won, but the
man shouted that his stake was the winning one and that
Granny's had lost. When they were dismissed Potapitch came
forward and said that their pockets were full of gold. Granny
at once bade the croupier to look into it and, in spite of the
outcries of the Poles (they cackled like two cocks caught in
the hand), the police came forward and their pockets were
immediately emptied for Granny's benefit. Granny enjoyed
unmistakable prestige among the croupiers and the whole staff
of the Casino all that day, until she had lost everything. By
degrees her fame spread all over the town. All the visitors at
the watering-place, of all nations, small and great, streamed to
look on at "wne vieiMe combesse russe tombee en enfance", who
had already lost "some miUions".

But Granny gained very, very littie by being rescued from
the two Poles. They were at once replaced by a third, who
spoke perfectly pure Russian and was dressed like a gentieman,
though be did look like a flunkey with a huge moustache and
a sense of his own importance. He, too, "laid himself at his
lady's feet and kissied them," but behaved haughtily to those
about him, was despotic over the play; in fact, immediately
behaved hke Granny's master rather than her servant. Every
minute, at every turn in the game, he turned to her and swore
with awful oaths that he was himself a "pern of good position",
and that he wouldn't take a kopeck of Granny's money. He
repeated this oath so many times that Granny was completely
intimidated. But as this pan certainly seemed at first to improve
her luck. Granny was not willing to abandon him on her own
account. An hour later the two Poles who had been turned out
of the Casino turned up behind Granny's chair again, and
again proffered their services if only to run errands for her.
Potapitch swore that the "pan of good position" winked at

90

them and even put something in their hands. As Granny had
no dinner and could not leave her chair, one of the Poles
certainly was of use : he ran off at once to the dining-room of
the Casino and brought her a cup of broth and afterwards some
tea. They both ran about, however. But towards the end
of the day, when it became evident to everyone that she would
stake her last banknote, there were behind her chair as many
as six Poles who had never been seen or heard of before.
When Granny was playing her Isist coin, they not only ceased
to obey her, but took no notice of her whatever, squeezed their
way up to the table in front of her, snatched the money them-
selves, put down the stakes and made their own play, shouted
and quarrelled, talked to the "pan of good position" as to one
of themselves, while the "pan of good position" himself seemed
almost oblivious of Granny's existence. Even when Graimy,
after losing everything, was returning after eight o'clock to the
hotel, three or four Poles ran at the side of her bath-chair,
still unable to bring themselves to leave her; they kept shouting
at the top of their voices, declaring in a hurried gabble that
Granny had cheated them in some way and must give them
something. They followed her in this way right up to the
hotel, from which they were at last driven away with blows.

By Potapitch's reckoning Granny had lost in all ninety
thousand roubles that day, apart from what she had lost the
day before. All her notes, her exchequer bonds, all the shares
she had with her, she had changed, one after another. I
marvelled how she could have stood those seven or eight hours
sitting there in her chair and scarcely leaving the table, but
Potapitch told me that three or four times she had begun win-
ning considerably; and, carried on by fresh hope, she could
not tear herself away. But gamblers know how a man can
sit for almost twenty-four hours at cards, without looking to
right or to left.

Meanwhile, very critical events were taking place all that day
at the hotel. In the morning, before eleven o'clock, when
Granny was still at home, our people — that is, the General and
De Grieux — ^made up their minds to take the final step. Learn-
ing that Granny had given up all idea of setting off, but was
going back to the Casino, they went in full conclave (all but
Polina) to talk things over with her finally and even openly.
The General, trembling and with a sinking heart in view of
the awful possibilities for himself, overdid it. After spending
half an hour in prayers and entreaties and making a clean

gi D

breast of everything — that is, of all his debts and even his
passion for Mile. Blanche (he quite lost his head), the General
suddenly adopted a nienacing tone and even began shouting
and stamping at Granny; cried that she was disgracing their
name, had become a scandal to the whole town, and finally
. . . finally: "You are shaming the Russian name," cried the
General, and he told her that the pohce would be called in I
Granny finally drove him from her with a stick (an actual
stick). The General and De Grieux consulted once or twice
that morning, and the question that agitated them was whether
it were not possible in some way to bring in the police, on
the plea that an imfortunate but venerable old lady, sinking
into her dotage, was gambling away her whole fortune, and
so on; whether, in fact, it would be possible to put her under
any sort of supervision or restraint. . . . But De Grieux only
shrugged his shoulders and laughed in the General's face, as
the latter pranced up and down his study talking excitedly.
Finally, De Grieux went off with a wave of his hand. In the
evening we heard that he had left the hotel altogether, after
having been in very earnest and mysterious confabulatioii with
Mile. Blanche. As for Mile. Blanche, she had taken her
measures early in the morning: she threw the General over
completely and would not even admit him to her presence.
When the General ran to the Casino in search of her sind met
her arm-in-arm with the Prince, neither she nor Madame de
Cominges deigned to notice him. The Prince did not bow
to him either. Mile Blanche spent that whole day hard at woik
upon the Prince, trying to force from him a definite declara-
tion. But alas! she was cruelly deceived in her reckoningi
This little catastrophe took place in the evening. It suddeiJy
came out that he was as poor as a church mouse, and, what is
more, was himself reckoning on borrowing from her on an
lOU to try his luck at roulette. Blanche turned him out
indignantly and locked herself up in her room.

On the morning of that day I went to Mr. Astley — or, to be
more exact, I went in search of Mr. Astley, but could find him
nowhere. He was not at home, or in the park, or in the Casino.
He was not dining at his hotel that day. It was past four
o'clock when I suddenly saw him walking from the railway
station towards the H6tel d'Angleterre. He was in a hurry and
was very much preoccupied, though it was hard to trace any
anxiety or any perturbation whatever in his face. He held out
his hand to me cordially, with his habitual exclamation:

92

"Ahl" but without stopping walked on with rather a rapid
step. I attached myself to him, but he managed to answer me
in such a way that I did not succeed in even asking him about
an3^thing. Moreover, I felt, for some reason, ashamed to begin
speaking of PoUna; he did not ask a word about her. I told
him about Granny. He listened attentively and seriously and
shrugged his shoulders.

"She will gamble away everything," I observed.

"Oh, yes," he answered; "she went in to play just as I was
going away, and afterwards I learnt for a fact that she had
lost ever57fliing. If there were time I would look in at the
Casino, for it is curious."

"Where have you been?" I cried, wondering that I had not
asked before.

"I've been in Frankfort."

"On business?"

"Yes, on business."

Well, what more was there for me to ask? I did, however,
continue walking beside him, but he suddenly turned into the
Hotel des Quatre Saisons, nodded to me and vanished. As I
walked home I gradually realised that if I had talked to him
for a couple of hours I should have learnt absolutely nothing,
because. . . I had nothing to ask him! Yes, that was so, of
course! I could not possibly foimulate my question.

AH that day Polina spent walking with the children and their
nurse in the park, or sitting at home. She had for a long time
past avoided the General, and scarcely spoke to him about any-
thing — about anything serious, at any rate. I had noticed that
for a long time past. But knowing what a position the General
was in to-day, I imagined that he could hardly pass her over —
that is, there could not but be an important conversation about
family affairs between them. When, however, I returned to
the hotel, after my conversation with Mr. Astley, I met Polina
with the children. There was an expression of the most un-
ruffled calm on her face, as though she alone had remained
untouched by the family tempest. She nodded in response to
my bow. I returned home feeling quite malignant.

I had, of course, avoided seeing her and had seen nothing
of her since the incident with the Burmerhelms. There was
some affectation and pose in this; but as time went on, I felt
more and more genuinely indignant. Even if she did not care
for me in the least, she should not, I thought, have trampled on
my feelings like that and have received my declarations so

93

contemptuously. She knew that I really loved her; she
admitted me, she allowed me to speak like that ! It is true that
it had begun rather strangely. Some time before, long ago,
in fact, two months before, I began to notice that she wanted
to make me her friend, her confidant, and indeed was in a way
testing me. But somehow this did not come off then; instead
of that there remained the strange relations that existed
between us; that is how it was I began to speak to her like
that. But if my love repelled her, why did she not directly
forbid me to speak of it?

She did not forbid me; indeed she sometimes provoked me to
talk of it and . . . and, of course, she did this for fun. I know
for certain. I noticed it unmistakably — ^it was agreeable to her
to Usten and to work me up to a state of misery, to woimd me
by some display of the utmost contempt and disregard. And,
of course, she knew that I could not exist without her. It was
three days since the affair with the Baron and I coidd not
endure our separation any longer. When I met her just now
near the Casino, my heart throbbed so that I turned pale. But
she could not get on without me, either ! She needed me and—
surely, surely not as a buffoon, a clown?

She had a secret — ^that was clear! Her conversation with
Granny had stabbed my heart. Why, I had urged her a
thousand times to be open with me, and she knew 5iat I was
ready to give my life for her. But she had alwaj^ put me off,
almost with contempt, or had asked of me, instead of the
sacrifice of my Ufe, such pranks as the one with the Baron I

Was not that enough to make one indignant? Could that
Frenchman be all the world to her? And Mr. Astley? But at
that point the position became utterly incomprehensible — and
meanwhile, my God I what agonies I went through.

On getting home, in an access of fury I snatched up my pen
and scribbled the following letter to her:

"Polina Alexandrovna, I see clearly that the denotement
is at hand which will affect you also. I repeat for the last
time: do you need my life or not? If I can be of use in
any way whatever, dispose of me as you think fit, and I will
meanwhile remain in my room and not go out at all. If you
need me, write to me or send for me."

I sealed up this note and sent it off by the corridor attendant,

94

instructing him to give it into her hands. I expected no answer,
but three minutes later the attendant returned with the message
that "she sent her greetings".

It was past six when I was summoned to the General.

He was in his study, dressed as though he were on the point
of going out. His hat and coat were lying on the sofa. It
seemed to me as I went in that he was standing in the middle of
the room with his legs wide apart and his head hanging, talking
aloud to himself. But as soon as he saw me, he ru^ed at me
almost crying out, so that I involuntarily stepped back and was
almost running away, but he seized me by both hands and
drew me to the sofa; sat down on the sofa himself, made me
sit down in an armchair just opposite himself, and, keeping
tight hold of my hand, with trembling lips and with tears
suddenly glistening on his eyelashes, began speaking in an
imploring voice.

"Alexey Ivanovitch, save, save me, spare me."

It was a long while before I could understand. He kept
talking and talking and talking, continually repeating, "Spare
me, spare me! " At last I guessed that he expected something
in the way of advice from me; or rather, abandoned by all in
his misery and anxiety, he had thought of me and had sent for
me, simply to talk and talk and taBc to me.

He was mad, or at any rate utterly distraught. He clasped
his hands and was on the point of dropping on his knees before
me to implore me (what do you suppose?) to go at once to Mile.
Blanche and to beseech, to urge her to return to him and marry
him.

"Upon my word. General," I cried; "why, Mile. Blanche is
perhaps scarcely aware of my existence. What can I do? "

But it was vain to protest; he didn't imderstand what was
said to him. He fell to talking about Granny, too, but with
terrible incoherence; he was still harping on the idea of sending
for the poUce.

"Among us, among us," he began, suddenly boiling over
with indignation; "among us, in a well-ordered state, in fact,
where there is a Government in control of things, such old
women would have been put under guardianship at once ! Yes,
my dear sir, yes," he went on, suddenly dropping into a
scolding tone, jumping up from his chair and pacing about the
room; "you may not be aware of the fact, honoured sir," he
said, addressing some imaginary "honoured sir" in the comer,
"so let me tell you . . . yes . . . among us such old women

93

are kept in order, kept in order; yes, indeed. . . . Oh, damn
it all!"

And he flung himself on the sofa again, and a minute later,
almost sobbing, gasping for breath, hastened to tell me that
Mile. Blanche would not marry him because Granny had come
instead of the telegram, and that now it was clear he would
not come into the inheritance. He imagined that I knew nothing
of this till then. I began to speak of De Grieux; he waved his
hand: "He has gone awayl Everj^ing of mine he has in
pawn; I'm stripped of everything! That money you brought
. . . that money — I don't know how much there is, I thmk
seven hundred francs are left and that's enough, that's all and
what's to come — I don't know, I don't know! . . ."

"How will you pay your hotel bill?" I cried in alarm; "and
. . . afterwards what will you do?"

He looked at me pensively, but I fancy he did not understand
and perhaps did not hear what I said. I tried to speak of
Polina Alexandrovna, of the children; he hurriedly answered:
"Yes! yes!" but at once feU to talking of the Prince again,
sa5dng tiiat Blanche would go away with him now and "then
. . . then, what am I to do, Alexey Ivanovitch?" he asked,
addressing me suddenly. "I vow, by God ! I don't know what
to do; tell me, isn't this ingratitude? Isn't this ingratitude?"

Finally he dissolved into floods of tears.

There was no doing anything with such a man; it would be
dangerous to leave him alone, too — something might happen
to him. I got rid of him somehow, but let nurse know she must
look in upon him pretty frequently, and also spoke to the
corridor attendant, a very sensible fellow; he, too, promised me
to keep an eye on the General.

I had hardly left the General when Potapitch came to
summon me to Granny. It was eight o'clock and she had only
just come back from the Casino after losing everj^thing. I went
to her; the old lady was sitting in an armchair, utterly worn
out and evidently ill. Marfa was giving her a cup of tea and
almost forcing her to drink it. And Graimy's tone and voice
were utterly dianged.

"Good-day, Alexey Ivanovitch, my good sir," she said,
bending her head slowly, and with dignity; "excuse me for
troubling you once more, you must excuse an old woman. 1
have left everything behind there, my friend, nearly a hundred
thousand roubles. You did well not to come with me yesterday.
Now I have no money, not a farthing. I don't want to delay

96

a moment, at half-past nine I'm setting off. I have sent to
that Englishman of yours — ^what's his name, Astley — I want to
ask him to lend me three thousand francs for a week. So you
must persuade him not to take it amiss and refuse. I am still
fairly well off, my friend. I have still three villages and two
houses. And there is still some money. I didn't bring it all
with me. I tell you this that he may not feel any doubts . . .
Ah, here he isl One can see he is a nice man."

Mr. Astley had hastened to come at Granny's first summons.
With no hesitation and without wasting words he promptly
counted out three thousand francs for an lOU which Granny
signed. When this business was settled he made haste to take
his leave and go away.

"And now you can go, too, Alexey Ivanovitch. I have oiJy
a Httie over an hour left. I want to he down : my bones ache.
Don't be hard on an old fool like me. Henceforward I won't
blame yoimg people for being flighty, and it would be a sin for
me now to blame that luckless fellow, your General, either. I
won't give him any money, though, as he wants me to, because
— to my thinking he is utterly silly; only, old fool as I am,
I've no more sense than he. Verily God seeks out and punishes
pride, even in old age. Well, good-bye. Marfa, lift me up!"

I wanted to see Granny off, however. What's more, I was
in a state of suspense; I kept expecting that in another minute
something would happen. I could not sit quietly in my room.
I went out into the corridor, even for a moment went for a
saunter along the avenue. My letter to her had been clear and
decisive and the present catastrophe was, of course, a final one.
I heard in the hotel that De Grieux had left. If she rejected
me as a friend, j>erhap)s she would not reject me as a servant.
I was necessary to her, I was of use to her, if only to run
her errands, it was boimd to be so!

When the train was due to start I ran to the station and saw
Granny into the train. Her whole party were together, in a
special reserved compartment. "Thank you, my good friend,
for your disinterested sympathy," she said, at parting from me;
"and tell Praskovya, in reference to what we were discussing
yesterday, I shall expect her."

I went home. Passing the General's rooms I met the old
nurse and inquired after the General. "Oh, he's all right, sir,"
she answered me dolefully. I went in, however, but stood still
in positive amazement. MUe. Blanche and the General were
both laughing heartily. Madame de Cominges was sitting on

97

the sofa dose by. The General was evidently beside himself
with delight. He was murmuring incoherently and going ofE
into prolonged fits of nervous laughter, during which his face
was puckered with innumerable wrinkles and his eyes dis-
appeared from sight. Afterwards I learnt from Blanche herself
that, having dismissed the Prince and having heard how the
General was weeping, she had taken it into her head to comfort
him by going to see him for a minute. But the poor General
did not know that at that time his fate was decided, and that
Mile. Blanche had already packed to set off for Paris by the
first train next morning.

Stopping in the doorway of the General's study, I changed
my mind and went away unnoticed. Going up to my own room
and opening the door, I suddenly noticed a figure in the half-
darkness sittiag on a chair in the comer by the window. She
did not get up when I went in. I went up quickly, looked,
and — ^my heart stood still : it was PoUna.

CHAPTER XIV

I POSITIVELY cried out aloud.
"What is it? What is it?" she asked me strangely. She
was pale cind looked gloomy.

"You ask what is it? You? Here in my room!"

"li 1 come, then I come tdtoigether. That's my way. You'll
see that directly; light the candle."

I lighted a candle. She got up, went up to the table, and put
before me an open letter.

"Read it," she ordered me.

"It's — ^it's De Grieux's handwriting," I cried, taking the
letter. My hands trembled and the hues danced before my eyes.
I have forgotten the exact wording of the letter, but here is
the main drift of it, if not the actual words.

"Mademoiselle," wrote De Grieux, "an unfortunate circum-
stance compels me to go away at once. You have, no doubt,
observed that I have purposely avoided a final explanation
with you until such time as the whole position might he cleared
up. The arrival of your old relation {de la vieiUe dame) and
her absurd behaviour have put sin end to my doubts. The
unsettled state of my own affairs forbids me to cherish further

98

the SAAreet hopes which I permitted myself to indulge for
some time. I regret the past, but I trust that you will not
detect in my behaviour anything unworthy of a gentleman and
an honest man (genMhomme et hormete homme). Having lost
almost all my money in loems to your stepfather, I find myself
compelled to make tiie utmost use of what is left to me; I have
already sent word to my friend in Petersburg to arrange at once
for the sale of the estates he has mortgaged to me; knowing,
however, that your frivolous stepfather has squandered your
private fortune I have determined to forgive him fifty thousand
francs, and I am returning him part of my claims on his
property equivalent to that sum, so that you are now put in a
position to regain all you have lost by demanding the property
from him by legal process. I hope. Mademoiselle, that in the
present position of affairs my action will be very advantageous
to you. I hope, too, that by this action I am fully performing
the duty of a man and a gentleman. Rest assured that your
memory is imprinted upon my heart for ever."

"Well, that's all clear," I said, turning to Polina; "surely
you coiJd have expected nothing else," I added, with
indignation.

"I expected nothing," she answered, with apparent com-
posure, though there was a tremor in her voice; "I had made
up my mind long ago; I read his mind and knew what he was
thinking. He thought that I was trying — ^that I should in-
sist ..." (She broke off without finishing her sentence, bit her
lips emd was silent.) "I purposely doubled my scorn towards
him," she began again. "I waited to see what was coming
from him. If a telegram had come telling of the inheritance
I'd have flung him the money borrowed from that idiot, my
stepfather, and would have sent him about his business. He has
been hateful to me for ages and ages. Oh ! he was not the same
man ! a thousand times over, I tell you, he was different 1 but
now, now . . . Oh, with what happiness I could fling that fifty
thousand in his nasty face and spit and stamp ..."

"But the security, the lOU for that fifty thousand, is in
the General's hands. Take it and return it to De Grieux."

"Oh, that's not the same thing, that's not the same thing ..."

"Yes, that's true, it's not the same thing. Besides, what is
the General capable of now? And Granny!" I cried suddenly.

Polina looked at me, as it were absent-mindedly and impa-
tiently. ^^

99

"Why Granny?" asked Polina, with vexation. "I can't go
to her . . . And I don't want to ask anyone's pardon," she
added irritably.

"What's to be done ! " I cried, "and how, oh, how could you
love De Grieux! Oh, the scoundrel, the scoundrel! If you
like I will kill him in a duel 1 Where is he now? "

"He's at Frankfurt, and will be there three days."

"One word from you and I'll set off to-morrow by the first
train," I said, with stupid enthusiasm.

She laughed.

"Why, he'll say, maybe: 'Give me back the fifty thousand
francs first.' Besides, what should you fight him for? . . .
What nonsense it is! "

"But where, where is one to get that fifty thousand francs?"
I repeated, grinding my teeth as though it had been possible to
pick them up from the floor. "I say — Mr. Astley," I suggested,
turning to her with a strange idea dawning upon me.

Her eyes flashed.

"What, do you mean to say you yoturself want me to turn
from you to that Englishman!" she said, looking in my face
with a searching glance and smiling bitterly. For the first time
in her life she addressed me in the second person singular.

I beUeve she was giddy with emotion at the moment, and all
at once she sat down on the sofa as though she were exhausted.

It was as though I had been struck by a flash of Ughtning.. I
stood up and could not believe my eyes, could not believe my
ears ! Why, then she loved me ! She had come to me and not
to Mr. Astley!

She, she, a yoimg girl, had come to my room in a hotel, so
she had utterly compromised herself by her own act, and I, I
was standing before her and still did not understand.

One wild idea flashed through my mind.

"Polina, give me only one hour. Stay here only one hour
and . . . I'U come back. That's . . . that's essential! You
shall see! Be here, be here!"

And I ran out of the room, not responding to her amazed and
questioning look; she called something after me but I did not
turn back.

Sometimes the wildest idea, the most apparently impossible
thought, takes possession of one's mind so strongly that one
accepts it at last as something substantial . . . more than that,
if the idea is associated with a strong passionate desire, then
sometimes one will accept it at last as something fated, inevit-

100

able, predestined — as something bound to be, and bound to
happen. Perhaps there is something else in it, some combination
of presentiments, some extraordinary efiort of will, self-poison-
ing by one's own fancy — or something else — I don't know what,
but on that evening (which I shall never in my life forget) some-
thing marvellous happened to me. Though it is quite justified
by the laws of arithmetic, nevertheless it is a marvel to me to
this day. And why, why had that conviction so long before
taken such firm and deep root in my mind? J had certainly
thought about it — I repeat — ^not as a chance among others
which might or might not come to pass, but as something
which was absolutely bound to happen!

It was a quarter-past ten. I went into the Casino with a con-
fident expectation and at the same time with an excitement I
had never experienced before. There were still a good many
people in the gambling hall, though not half as many as in
the morning.

Between ten and eleven there are still to be found in the
gambling halls the genuine desperate gamblers for whom
nothing exists at a spa but roulette, who have come for that
alone, who scarcely notice what is going on around them and
take no interest in anything during the whole season, but play
from morning till night and would be ready perhaps to play
all night till dawn, too, if it were possible, ^d they always
disperse with annoyance when at twelve o'clock the roulette
hall is closed. And when the senior croupier announces, just
before midnight: "Les trois dernier s ccHfps, messieurs," they
are ready to stake on those last three strokes all they have in
their pockets — and do, in fact, lose most at that time. I went
up to the very table where Granny had sat that day. It was not
crowded, and so I soon took my place at the table standing.
Exactly before me was the word "Passe" scrawled on the
green cloth.

"Passe" is the series of numbers from nineteen inclusive to
thirty-six.

The first series of numbers from one to eighteen inclusive is
called "Manque"; but what was that to me? I was not calcu-
lating, I had not even heard what had been the winning niunber
last, and I did not ask about it when I began to play — as
every player of any prudence would do. I pulled out all my
twenty friedrichs d'or and staked them on "passe", the word
which lay before me.

"Vingt deux," cried the croupier.

lOI

I had won and a^n staked all, including my winnings.

"Trente et un," cried the croupier.

I had won again. I had in all eighty friedrichs d'or. I staked
the whole of that sum on the twelve middle numbers (my
winnings would be three to one, but the chances were two to
one against me.) The wheel rotated and stopped at twenty-
four. I was passed three rolls each of fifty friedrichs d'or in
paper and ten gold coins; I had now two hundred friedrichs
d'or.

I was cis though in delirium and I moved the whole heap of
gold to red — and suddenly thought better of it. And for the
only time that whole evening, all the time I was playing, I felt
chilled with terror and a shudder made my arms and legs
tremble. I felt with horror and instantly realised what losing
would mean for me now! My whole life was at stake.

"Rouge," cried the croupier, and I drew a breath; fiery pins
and needles were tingling all over my body. I was paid in
bank-notes. It came to four thousand florins and eighty
friedrichs d'or (I could still keep count at that stage).

Then, I remember, I staked two thousand florins on the
twelve middle numbers, and lost : I staked my gold, the eighty
friedrichs d'or, and lost. I was seized with fury: I snatched
up the two thousand florins I had left and staked them on the
first twelve numbers — ^haphazard, at random, without think-
ing ! There was, however, an instant of suspense, like, perhaps,
the feeling experienced by Madame Blandiard when she flew
from a balloon in Paris to the earth.

"Quatrel" cried the croupier.

Now with my stake I had six thousand florins. I looked
triimiphant already. I was afraid of nothing — ^nothing, and
staked four thousand florins on black. Nine people followed
my example and staked on black. The croupiers exchanged
glances and said something to one another. People were talk-
ing all round in suspense.

Black won. I don't remember my wiimings after, nor what
I staked on. I only remember as though in a dream that I
won, I believe, sixteen thousand florins; suddenly three
unlucky turns took twelve thousand from it; then I staked the
last four thousand on "passe" (but I scarcely felt anything as
I did so; I simply waited in a mechanical, senseless way) — and
again I won; then I won four times running. I only remember
that I gathered up money in thousands; I remember, too, that
the middle twelve won most often and I kept to it. It turned up

102

with a sort of regularity, certainly three or four times in
succession, then it did not turn up twice running and then it
followed three or four times in succession. Such astonishing
regulajity is sometimes met with in streaks, and that is what
throws inveterate gamblers who calculate with a pencil in their
hands out of their reckoning. And what horrible ironies of fate
happen sometimes in such cases!

I beUeve not more than half an hour had passed since I came
into the room, when suddenly the croupier informed me that
I had won thirty thousand florins, and as the bank did not meet
claims for a larger sum at one time the roulette would be closed
tiU next morning. I snatched up aU my gold, dropped it into
my pockets, snatched up all my notes, and at once went into,
the other room where there was another roulette table; the
whole crowd streamed after me; there at once a place was
cleared for me and I fell to staking again haphazard without
reckoning. I don't understand what saved me!

At times, however, a glimmer of prudence began to dawn
upon my mind. I clung to certain numbers and combinations,
but soon abandoned them and staked almost unconsciously.
I must have been very absent-minded; I remember the
croupiers several times corrected me. I made several gross
mistakes. My temples were soaked with sweat and my hands
were shaking. The Poles ran up, too, with offers of theij
services, but I listened to no one. My luck was unbroken!
Suddenly there were sounds of loud talk and laughter, and
everyone cried "Bravo, bravo!" some even clapped their
hands. Here, too, I collected thirty thousand florins, and the
bank closed till next day.

"Go away, go away," a voice whispered on my right.

It was a Frankfurt Jew; he was standing beside me all the
time, and I believe sometimes helped me in my play.

"For goodhess' sake go," another voice whispered in my left
ear.

I took a hurried glance. It was a lady about thirty, very
soberly and quietly dressed, with a tired, pale, sickly face
which yet bore traces of having once been beautiful. At that
moment I was stuffing my pockets with the notes, which I
crumpled up anyhow, and gathering up the gold that lay on
the table. Snatching up the last roll of notes, I succeeded in
putting it into the pale lady's hands quite without attracting
notice; I had an intense desire to do so at the time, and I
remember her pale slim fingers pressed my hand warmly in

103

token of gratitude. All that took place in one instant.

Having collected quickly all my winnings I went quickly to
the trente et quarante.

Trente et quarante is frequented by the aristocratic public.
Unlike roulette, it is a game of cards. Here the bank will pay
up to a hundred thousand thalers at once. The largest stake is
here also four thousand florins. I knew nothing of the game,
and scarcely knew how to bet on it, except the red and the
black, upon which one can bet in this game too. And I stuck
to red and black. The whole Casino crowded round. I don't
remember whether I once thought of Polina all this time. I
was experiencing an overwhelming enjoyment in scooping up
• and taking away the notes which grew up in a heap before me.

It seemed as though fate were urging me on. This time, as
luck would have it, a circumstance occurred which, however, is
fairly frequent in the game. Chance favours red, for instance,
ten or even fifteen times in succession. I had heard two days
before that in the previous week red had turned up twenty-two
times in succession; it was something which had never been
remembered in roulette, and it was talked of with amazement.
Everyone, of course, abandoned red at once, and after the
tenth time, for instance, scarcely anyone dared to stake on it.
But none of the experienced players staked on black either.
The experienced gambler knows what is mccint hy this "freak
of chance". It would mean that after red had won sixteen
times, at the seventeenth time the luck would infallibly fall
on black. Novices at play rush to this conclusion in crowds,
double and treble their stakes, and lose terribly.

But, noticing that red had turned up seven times running,
by strange perversity I staked on it. I am convinced that
vanity was half responsible for it; I wanted to impress the
spectators by taking a mad risk, and — oh, the strange sensa-
tion — I remember distinctiy that, quite apart from the prompt-
ings of vanity, I was possessed by an intense craving for risk.
Perhaps passing through so many sensations my soul was not
satisfied but only irritated by them and craved still more sensa-
tion — and stronger and stronger ones — ^till utterly exhausted.
And, truly I am not lying, if the regulations had allowed me
to stake fifty thousand florins at once, I should certainly have
staked them. People around shouted that it was madness—
that red had won fourteen times already I

"Monsieur a gagni dijd cent mille florins," I heard a voice
say near me.

104

I suddenly came to myself. What? I had won during that
evening a hundred thousand florins! And what more did I
want? I fell on my banknotes, crumpled them up in my
pockets without counting them, scooped up all my gold, all my
rolls of notes, and ran out of the Casino. Everyone was laugh-
ing as I went through the room, looking at my bulging pockets
and at the way I staggered under the weight of gold. I think
it weighed over twenty poimds. Several hands were held out to
me; I gave it away in handfuls as I snatched it up. Two Jews
stopped me at the outer door.

"You are bold — ryou are very bold," they said to me, "but
be sure to go away to-morrow as soon as possible, or else you
will lose it all — you wiU lose it aU . . ."

I didn't listen to them. The avenue was so dark that I could
not see my hand before my face. It was half a mile to the hotel.
I had never been afraid of thieves or robbers even as a small
boy; I did not think of them now either. I don't remember
what I thought of on the road; I had no thoughts. I was only
aware of an immense enjojmient — success, victory, power —
I don't know how to express it. Polina's image hovered before
my mind too; I remembered her and was conscious I was going
to her; I should be with her in a moment, should be telling her
and showing her . . . But I hardly remembered what she had
said to me earUer, and why I had gone, and all the sensations
I had felt, not more than an hour and a half before, seemed
to me something long past, transformed, grown old — some-
thing of which we ^ould say no more because everything
now would begin anew. Almost at the end of the avenue a
sudden panic came upon me. What if I were robbed and
murdered at this instant? At every step my panic grew greater.
I almost ran. Suddenly, at the end of the avenue there was
the glare of our hotel with its many windows lighted up —
thai± God, home!

I ran up to my storey and rapidly opened the door. Polina
was there, sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, with .a
lighted candle before her. She looked at me with amazement,
and no doubt at that moment I must have looked rather
strange. I stood before her and began flinging down all my
piles of money on the table.

105

CHAPTER XV

I REMEMBER she fixed a very intent look on my face, but
without even moving from her seat or changing her position.

"I've won two hundred thousand francs! " I cried, as I flung
down the last roll of notes.

The huge bundles of notes and piles of gold filled up the
whole table; I could not take my eyes off it. At moments I
completely forgot Polina. At one moment I began arranging
the heap of banknotes, folding them up together, at the next
I began undoing the rolls of gold and heaping them up in one
pile; then I abandoned it all and strode rapidly up and down
the room, lost in thought, then went up to the table, count-
ing the money again. Suddenly, as though coming to myself,
I ran to the door and locked it with two turns of the key. Then
I stood pondering before my Uttle portmanteau.

"Shall I put it in the portmanteau till to-morrow?" I said,
suddenly remembering Polina and turning towards her.

She was still sitting in the same place without stirring, but
watching me attentively. Her expression was somehow strange;
I did not like that expression. I am not mistaken if I say
that there was hatred in it.

I went up to her quickly.

"Polina, here are twenty-five thousand florins — that's fifty
thousand francs — ^more, in fact. Take it, throw it in his face
to-morrow."

She did not answer me.

"If you like I will take you away early in the morning.
Shall I?"

She suddenly burst out laughing. She laughed for a long
time.

I looked at her with wonder and a mortified feeling. That
laugh was very much like sarcastic laughter at my expense,
which had always been so frequent at the times of my most
passionate declarations.

At last she ceased laughing and frowned; she looked at me
sternly from under her brows.

"I won't take your money," she declared contemptuously.

"How? What's this?" I cried. "Polina, why?"

"I won't take money for nothing."

"I offer it you as a friend; I offer you my life."

io6

She looked at me with a long, penetrating look, as though
she would pierce me through with it.

"You give too much," she said, with a laugh; "De Grieux's
mistress is not worth fifty thousand francs."

"Polina, how can you talk to me hke that!" I cried,
reproachfully. "Am I a De Grieux?"

"I hate you 1 Yes . . . yes! . . . I love you no more than
De Grieux," she cried, her eyes suddenly flashing.

Then she suddenly covered her face with her hands and went
into hysterics. I rushed to her.

I realised that something had happened to her while I was
away. She seemed quite out of her mind.

"Buy me! Do you want to? Do you want to? For fifty
thousand francs, like De Grieux?" broke from her with con-
vulsive sobs.

I held her in my arms, kissed her hands, her feet, fell on my
knees before her.

Her hysterics passed off. She put both hands on my
shoulders, and looked at me intently; she seemed trying to read
something in my face. She Ustened to me, but evidently did
not heeir what I was saymg, to her. Some doubt and anxiety
betrayed itself in her face. I was anxious about her; it seemed
to me that her brain was giving way. Then she began softly
drawing me to her; a trustful smile began stra5/ing over her
face; but she suddenly pushed me away, and again fell to
scanning me with a darkened look.

Suddenly she feU to embracing me.

"You love me, you love me, don't you?" she said. "Why,
you . . . why, you . . . wanted to fight the Baron for my
sake!"

And suddenly she burst out laughing — as though she had
recalled something sweet and funny. She cried and laughed
all at once. Well, what was I to do? I was in a fever myself.
I remember she began sajdng something to me — ^but I could
scarcely understand anj^thing. It was a sort of delirium — a sort
of babble-^as though she wanted to tell me something as
rapidly as possible — a delirium which was interrupted from
time to time with the merriest laughter, which at last frightened
me. "No, no; you are sweet, sweet," she repeated. "You are
my faithful one!" And again she put her hand on my
shoulders, again she looked at me and repeated, "You love me
. . . love me . . . will love me?" I could not take my eyes
off her; I had never seen her before in such a mood of love and

107

tenderness; it is true this, of course, was delirium, but , . .
noticing my passionate expression, she suddenly began smiling
slyly; apropos of nothing she began suddenly talking of Mr.
Astley.

She talked incessantly of Mr. Astley, however (she talked of
him particularly when she had been trjdng to tell me of some-
thing that evening), but what she meant exactly I could not
quite grasp; she seemed to be actually laughing at him. She
repeated continually that he was waiting and that, did I know,
he was certainly standing under the window?

"Yes, yes, under the window; come, open it: look out: look
out: he certainly is here! " She pushed me to the window, but
as soon as I made a movement to go she went off into p>eals of
laughter and I remained with her, and she fell to embracing
me.

"Shall we go away? shall we go away to-morrow?" The
question suddenly came into her mind imeasily. "Well ..."
(and she sank into thought). "Well, shall we overtake Granny;
what do you think? I think we might overtake her at Berlin.
What do you think she will say when she sees us? And Mr.
Astley? . . . Well, he won't leap off the Schlangenberg — ^what
do you think?" (She burst out laughing.) "Come, listen, do
you know where he is going next summer? He wants to go
to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and he has adced
me to go with him, ha-ha-ha I He says that we Russians can
do nothing without Europeans and are incapable of anything.
. . . But he is good-natured, too! Do you know he makes
excuses for the General? He says that Blanche . . . that
passion — oh, I don't know, I don't know," she repeated, as
though she didn't know what she was talldng about. "They
are poor — ^how sorry I am for them, and Gnumy . . . Come,
listen, listen, how could you kill De Grieux? And did you
really imagine you could kill him? Oh, silly fellow! Can you
really thiiik I would let you fight with De Grieux? Why, you
did not even kill the Baron," she added, suddenly laughmg.
"Oh, how funny you were then with the Baron. I looked at
you both from the seat; and how unwiUing you were to go then,
when I sent you. How I laughed then, how I laughed," she
added, laughing.

And suddenly she kissed and embraced me again. Again she
pressed her face to mine passionately and tenderly. I heard
nothing and thought of nothing more. My head was in a
whirl . . .

io8

I think it was about seven o'clock in the morning when I
woke up. The sun was shining into the room. Polina was
sitting beside me and looking about her strangely, as though
she were waiving from some darkness and trying to collect her
thoughts. She, too, had only just woken up and was gazing,
at the table and the money. My head ached and was heavy.
I tried to take Polina by tiie hand: she pushed me away and
jumped up from the sofa. The dawning day was overcast.
Rain had fallen before sunrise. She went to the window, she
opened it, put out her head and shoulders and with her face
in her hands and her elbows on the window-sill, stayed for
three minutes looking out without turning to me or hearing
what I said to her. I wondered with dread what would happen
now and how it would end. All at once she got up from the
window, went up to the table and, looking at me with infinite
hatred, with lips trembling with anger, she said to me :

"Well, give me my fifty thousand francs now!"

"Polina, again, again?" I was beginning.

"Or have you changed your mind? Ha-ha-ha! Perhaps
you regret it now."

Twenty-five thousand florins, counted out the evening
before, were lying on the table; I took the money and gave
it to her.

"It's mine now, isn't it? That's so, isn't it? Isn't it?" she
asked me, spitefully holding the money in her hand.

"Yes, it was always yours," I answered.

"WeU, there are your fifty thousand francs for you I"

With a swing of her arm she flung the money at me. It hit
me a stinging blow in the face and the coins flew all over the
table. After doing this Polina ran out of the room.

I know that at that njoment she was certainly not in her right
mind, though I don't understand such temporary insanity. It
is true that she is still ill, even now, a month later. What was
the cause of her condition, and, above all, of this whim? Was
it wounded pride? Despair at having brought herself to come
to me? Had I shown any sign of priding myself on my happi-
ness, and did I, like De Grieux, want to get rid of her by
giving her fifty thousand francs? But that was not so; I know
Siat, on my conscience. I believe that her vanity was partly
responsible; her vanity prompted her to distrust and insult me,
although all that, perhaps, was not clear, even to herself. In
that case, of course, I was punished for De Grieux and was
made responsible, though I was not much to blame. It is true

109

that all this was almost only dehrium; it is true, too, that I
knew she was in delirium and , . . did not take that fact into
consideration; perhaps she cannot forgive me for that now.
Yes, but that is now; but then, then? Why, she was not in
such a delirium and so ill then as to be utterly obhvious of
what she was doing; when she came to me with De Grieux's
letter she knew what she was doing.

I made haste to thrust all my notes and my heap of gold into
the bed, covered it over and went out ten minutes after Polina.
I made sure she would run home, and I thought I would slip
into them on the sly, and in the hall ask the nurse how the
young lady was. What was my astonishment when I learnt
from nurse, whom I met on the stairs, that Polina had not yet
returned home and that nurse was coming to me for her.

"She only just left my room about ten minutes ago; where
can she have gone?"

Nurse looked at me reproachfully.

And meanwhile it had caused a regular scandal, which by
now was all over the hotel. In the porter's room and at the
ober-kellner's it was whispered that Fraiilein had run out of the
hotel in the rain at six o'clock in the morning in the direction
of the H6tel d'Angleteire. From what they said and hinted,
I noticed that they all knew already that she had spent the
night in my room. However, stories were being told of the
whole family : it had become known all through the hotel that
the General had gone out of his mind and was crying. The
story was that Granny was his mother, who had come expressly
from Russia to prevent her son's marriage with Mile, de
Cominges, and was going to cut him out of her will if he dis-
obeyed her, and, as he certainly would disobey her, the
Countess had purposely thrown away all her money at roulette
before his eyes, so that he should get nothing. "Diese Russen!"
repeated the ober-kellner, shaking his head indignantly. The
others laughed. The ober-kellne>r was making out his bill. My
winning was known about already. Karl, my corridor
attendant, was the first to congratulate me. But I had no
thought for any of them. 1 rushed to the H6tel d'Angleterre.

It was early; Mr. Astley was seeing no one; learning that it
was I, he came out into the corridor to me and stopped before
me, turning his pewtery eyes upon me in silence, waiting to
hear what I. should say. I inquired about Polina.

"She is ill," answered Mr. Astley, looking at me as fixedly as
before.

no

"Then she really is with you?"

"Yes, she is."

"Then, what do you ... do you mean to keep her?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Astley, it will make a scandal; it's impossible. Besides,
she is quite ill; perhaps you don't see it?"

"Oh, yes, I notice it, and I've just told you she is ill. If she
had not been ill she would not have spent the night with you."

"Then you know that?"

"Yes, I know it. She came here yesterday and I would have
taken her to a relation of mine, but as she was ill, she made a
mistake and went to you."

"Fancy that! Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Astley. By
the way, you've given me an idea: weren't you standing all
night under our window? Miss Polina was making me open the
window and look out all night to see whether you were standing
under the window; she kept laughing about it."

"Really? No, I didn't stand under the window; but I was
waiting in the corridor and walking round."

"But she must be looked after, Mr. Astley."

"Oh, yes, I've sent for the doctor, smd, if she dies, you will
answer to me for her death."

I was amazed.

"Upon my word, Mr. Astley, what do you want?"

"And is it true liat you won two hundred thousand thalers
yesterday?"

"Only a hundred thouscind florins."

"Weil, do you see, you had better go off to Paris this
morning!"

"What for?"

"All Russians who have money go to Paris," Mr. Astley
explained, in a tone of voice as though he had read this in a
book.

"What could I do now in Paris, in the summer? I love her,
Mr. Astley, you know it yourself."

"Really? I am convinced you don't. If you remain here
you will certainly lose all you have won and you will have
nothing left to go to Paris with. But, good-bye, I am perfectly
certain you will go to Paris to-day."

"Vety well, good-bye, only I shan't go to Paris. Think, Mr.
Astley, what will be happening here? The General . . . and
now this adventure with Miss Polina — why, that will be all
over the town."

Ill

"Yes, all over the town; I believe the General is not thinking
about that : he has no thoughts to spare for that. Besides, Miss
Polina has a perfect right to live where she likes. In regard to
that family, one may say quite correctly that the family no
longer exists."

I walked away laughing at this Englishman's strange convic-
tion that I was going to Paris. "He wants to shoot me in a
duel, though," I thought, "if Mile. Polina dies — what a com-
plication 1 " I swear I was sorry for Polina, but, strange to say,
from the very moment when I reached the gambling tables the
previous evening and began winning a pile of money, my love
had retreated, so to speak, into the background. I say this
now; but at the time I did not reaHse all this clearly. Can I
really be a gambler? Can I really . . . have loved Polina so
, strangely? No, I love her to this day. God is my witness!
, And then, when I left Mr. Astley and went home, I was
* genuinely miserable and blaming myself. But ... at this
point a very strange and silly thing happened to me.

I was hurrying to see the General, when suddenly, not far
from his rooms, a door was opened and someone called me.
It was Madame la veuve Cominges, and she called me at the
bidding of Mile. Blanche. I went in to see Mile. Blanche.

They had a small suite of apartments, consisting of two
rooms. I could hear Mile. Blanche laugh and call out from the
bedroom.

She was getting up.

"A, c'est ltd! Viens done, bete! Is it true, que tu as gagne
une montagne d'or et d'atrgent? J'aimerais mieux Vor."

"Yes, I did win," I answered, laughing.

"How much?"

"A hundred thousand florins."

"Bihi, comme tu es bete. Why, come in here. I can't hear
anything. Nous ferans bombcmce, n'est ce pas?"

I went in to her. She was lying under a pink satin quilt,
above which her robust, swarthy, wonderfully swarthy,
shoulders were visible, shoulders such as one only sees in one's
dreams, covered to some extent by a batiste nightgown
bordered with white lace which was wonderfully becoming to
her dark skin.

"Mon fits, as-tu dm coew?" she cried, seeing me, and burst
out laughing. She laughed very good-humouredly, and some-
times quite genuinely.

"Tout autre," I began, paraphrasing Comeille.

112

"Here you see, vots-ki," she began babbling; "to begin
with, find my stockings, help me to put them on; and then,
si tu n'es pas trop bete, je te prends d, Paris. You know I am
just going."

"Just going?"

"In half an hour."

All her things were indeed packed. All her portmanteaux and
things were ready. Coffee had been served some time before.

"Eh bient, if you like, Ut verras Paris. Dis dcmc qu'est ce que
c'est qu'tm outchitel? Tu ettds bien bete, qtumd tu etcds
outchitel. Where are my stockings? Put them on for me!"

She thrust out some positively fascinating feet, little dark-
skinned feet, not in the least misshapen, as feet that look so
small in shoes always are. I laughed and began drawing her
silk stockings on for her. Meanwhile Mile. Blanche sat up in
bed, pratthng away.

"Eh bien, que feras-tu, si je te prends avec? To begin with, I
want fifty thousand francs. You'll give them to me at Frank-
furt. Nous allons a Paris: there we'll play together: et je te
jerai voir des etoiles en plein jour. You will see women such
as you have never seen before. Listen ..."

"Wait a minute— if I give you fifty thousand francs, what
will be left for me?"

"Et cent cunqumde mille francs, you have forgotten: and
what's more, I consent to live with you a month, two months :
qiie scns-je! In those two months we shall certainly get through
tiiat hundred and fifty thousand francs, you see, je suis botme
enfant, and I tell you beforehand, mais tu verras des etoiles."

"What! all in two months!"

"Why! does that horrify you? Ah, vil esclave! But, do
you know? one month of such a life is worth your whole
existence. One month — et apres le deluge! Mais tu ne peux
comprendre; va! Go along, go along, you are not worth it!
Aie, que fads tu?"

At that moment I was putting a stocking on the other leg,
but could not resist kissing it. She pulled it away and began
hitting me on the head with the tip of her foot. At last, she
turned me out altogether.

"Et bien! nwn outchitel, je f attends, si tu veux; I am start-
ing in a quarter of an hour!" she called after me.

On returning home I felt as though my head were going
round. Well, it was not my fault that Mile. Polina had thrown
the whole pile of money in my face, and had even yesterday

113

preferred Mr. Astley to me. Some of the banknotes that had
been scattered about were still lying on the floor; I picked
them up. At that moment the door opened and the ober-keU^ter
himself made his appearance (he had never deigned to look into
my room before) with a suggestion that I might like to move
downstairs to a magnificent suite of apartments which had
just been vacated by Count V.

I stood still and thought a little.

"My bill — I am just leaving, in ten minutes," I cried. "If
it's to be Paris, let it be Paris," I thought to myself; "it seems
it was fated at my birth!"

A quarter of an hour later we were actually sitting in a
reserved compartment. Mile. Blanche, Madame la veuve
Cominges and I. Mile. Blanche, looking at me, laughed till
she was almost hysterical. Madame de Cominges followed suit;
I cannot say that I felt cheerful. My life had broken in two,
but since the previous day I had grown used to staking every-
thing on a card. Perhaps it is reaJly the truth that my sudden
wealth was too much for me and had turned my head. Peut-
etre, je ne demmidcds pas mieux. It seemed to me for a time —
but only for a time, the scenes were shifted. "But in a month
I shall be here, and then . . . and then we will try our
strength, Mr. Astley!" No, as I recall it now, I was awfully
sad then, though I did laugh as loudly as that idiot, Blanche.

"But what is the matter with you? How silly you are!
Oh! how silly you are! " Blanche kept exclaiming, interrupting
her laughter to scold me in earnest. "Oh well, oh well, we'U
spend your two hundred thousand francs: but in exchange
mcds t<u> seras heweux comme im petit foi; I will tie your cravat
myself and introduce you to Hortense. And when we have
spent all our money, you will come back here cind break the
Ixmk again. What did the Jews tell you? The great thing is—
boldness, and you have it, and you will bring me money to
Paris more than once again. Qunmt a moi, je veux cmqwmte
miUe francs de rentes 06 aHws . . ."

"And the General?" I asked her.

"Why, the General, as you know, comes to see me every day
with a bouquet. This time I purposely asked him to get me
some very rare flowers. The poor fellow will come back and
will find the bird has flown. He'll fly after us, you will see.
Ha-ha-ha! I shall be awfully pleased to see him. He'll be of
use to me in Paris; Mr. Astley will pay his bill here. . . ."

And so that was the way in which I went to Paris.

114

CHAPTER XVI

WHAT shall I say about Paris? It was madness, of course,
and foolery. I only spent a little over three weeks in
Paris, and by the end of that time my hundred thousand francs
was finished. I speak only of a hundred thousand. The other
hundred thousand I gave to Mile. Blanche in hard cash — ^fifty
thousand at Frankfurt and three days later in Paris I gave her
an lOU for another fifty thousand francs, though a week later
she exchanged this for cash from me. "Et les cent miU& f rimes,
qui nous restent, tu les tnamgeras av0c moi, man ouichitel."
She always called me an outchitel, i.e., a tutor. It is difficult
to imagine anything in the world meaner, stingier and more
niggardly than the class of creaures to which MUe. Blanche
belonged. But that was in the spending of her own money.
As regards my hundred thousand francs, she openly informed
me, later on, that she needed them to establish herself in Paris,
"as now I am going to settle in decent style once for all, and
now no one shall turn me aside for a long time; at least, that
is my plan," she added. I hardly saw that hundred thousand,
however; she kept the money the whole time, and in my purse,
into which she looked every day, there was never more than a
hundred francs, and always less and less.

"What do you want money for?" she would say, sometimes,
in the simplest way, and I did not dispute with her. But she
furnished and decorated her flat very nicely with that money,
and afterwards, when she took me to her new abode, as she
showed me the rooms, she said: "You see what care and taste
can do even with the scantiest means." These "scanty means"
amounted to fifty thousand francs, however. With the second
fifty thousand she provided herself with a carriage and horses.
Moreover, we gave two balls, that is, two evening parties at
which were present Hortense, Lizette and Cleopatra, women
remarkable in very many respects and even quite good-looking.
At those two evenings I had to play the very foolish part of
host, to receive and entertain the stupidest rich tradesmen, in-
credibly ignorant and shameless, various army lieutenants and
miserable little authors and journalistic insects, who appeared
in the most fashionable swallow-tails and straw-coloured
gloves, and displayed a vanity and affectation whose propor-
tions were beyond anything conceivable in Petersburg — and

1x5

that is saying a great deal. Many of them thought fit to jeer
at me; but I got drunk with champagne and lolled at full length
in a back room. To me it was all loathsome to the last degree.
"C'esi im outchiDel," Blanche kept saying about me, "ii a
gagnd deux ceni milh francs. Without me he wouldn't have
known how to spend it. And afterwards he will be an ot^chitel
again; don't you know of a place for one? we ought to do
something for him."

I had recourse to champagne very often, because I was often
sad and dreadfully bored. I lived in the most bourgeois, in the
most mercenary surroundings in which every sowi was reckoned
and accounted for. Blanche disliked me for the first fortnight:
I noticed that; it is true, she dressed me like a dandy, and tied
my cravat for me every day, but in her soul she genuinely
despised me. I did not pay the slightest attention to that.
Bored and dispirited, I used to go usually to the Chateau de
Fleurs, where regularly every evening I got drunk and
practised the cancan (which they dance so disgustingly there),
and acquired in the end a kind of celebrity.

At last Blanche gauged my true character. She had for some
reason conceived tiie idea that I should spend all the time we
were together walking after her with a pencil and paper in my
hand, and should always be reckoning how much she had spent,
how much she had stolen, how much she would spend and how
much more she would steal. And she was, of course, convinced
that we should have a regular battle over every ten-franc piece.
She had an answer in readiness for every attack that she antici-
pated from me; but when she found I did not attack her, she
could not at first refrain from defending herself, unprovoked.
Sometimes she would begin with great heat, but seeing that I
remained silent as a rule, l5^ng on a sofa gazing at the ceiling—
at last, she was surprised. At first she thought I was simply
stupid, "ttn omtcMtcL" , and merely cut short her explanations,
probably thinking to herself: "\VTiy, he's a fool. There's no
need to lay it on for him, since he doesn't understand." She
would go away but come back again ten minutes later (this
happened at a time when she was spending most ferociously,
spending on a scale quite out of proportion to our means: she
had, for instance, got rid of the horses first bought and bought
another pair for sixteen thousand francs).

"Well, so you are not cross, bibi?" she said, coming up
to me.

"N — n — n — no I You weary mel" I said, removing her

ii6

hands from me, but this seemed to her so curious that she
immediately sat down beside me.

"You see, I only decided to pay so much because they could
be sold later on if need be. They can be sold again for twenty
thousand francs."

"No doubt, no doubt; they are splendid horses, and you
have a fine turn-out now; it suits you; well, that's enough."

"Then you are not cross?"

"Why should I be? You are sensible to provide yourself
with things that are necessary to you. All that will be of use
to you afterwards. I see that it is quite necessary for you to
estabUsh yourself in such a style; otherwise you will never
save up your miUion. Our hundred thousand francs is only a
beginning; a drop in the ocean."

Blanche had expected from me anj^thing but such reflections
(instead of outcries and reproaches). She seemed to drop from
the clouds.

"So that's what you are like! Mais tu as V esprit pow com-
prendre. Sais-tu, man gargon, though you are an outcMtel you
ought to have been bom a prince. So you don't grudge the
money's going so quickly?"

"Bother the money! the quicker the better!"

"Mais sais-tw . . . mais dis done, are you rich? Mais sais-
tu. you really despise money too much. Qu'est ce que tu feras
cupres, dis dionc?"

"Apres, I shall go to Homburg and win another hundred
thousand francs."

"Old, om, c'est ga, c'esi magnifique! And I know you will
certainly win it and bring it here. Dis done, why you will make
me reaUy love you. Eh hien, I will love you all the time for
being like that, and won't once be unfaithful to you. You see,
I have not loved you all this time, parceque je croyais que tu
n'etais qu'um outchitel [quelque chose comnne wn luquais, n'est-
ce pas?), but I have been faithful to you aU the same, parceque
je suis bonne fille."

"Come, you are Ij^ing! How about Albert, that swarthy-
faced little officer; do you suppose I didn't see last time?"

"Oh, oh, mais tu es . . ."

"Come, you are \yya%, you are lying; why, do you suppose I
should be angry? Why, it's no matter; il faut que la jetmesse
se passe. And there's no need for you to send him away if you
had him before me and are fond of him. Only don't give him
money, do you hear?"

117

"So you are not angry about it? Mods tu es tm vrai phih-
sophe, scds-tu? Un vrcd philosophe!" she cried enthusiastically.

"Eh hiem! je fmmertd, je t'aimerai — tu verras, tu seras
comiemi!"

And from that time she really did seem to be attached to me,
to be really affectionate; and so our last ten days passed. The
"stars" promised me I did not see. But in some respects she
really did keep her word. What is more, she introduced me to
Hortense, who really was a remarkable woman in her own way,
and in our circle was called Therese philosophe . . .

However, there is no need to enlarge upon that; all that might
make a separate story, in a different tone, which I do not want
to introduce into this story. The fact is, I longed above every-
thing for this episode to be over. But our himdred thousand
francs lasted, as I have mentioned already, almost a month—
at which I was genuinely surprised; eighty thousand of that,
at least, Blanche spent on things for herself, and we lived on no
more than twenty thousand francs — and yet it was enough.
Blanche, who was in the end almost open with me (or, at any
rate, did not lie to me about some things), declared tint, any-
way, the debts she had been obliged to make would not fall
upon me: "I have never given you bills or lOUs to sign," she
said, "because I was sorry for you; but any other girl would
have certainly done it and got you into prison. You see, you
see how I loved you and how good I am I Think of what that
devil of a wedding alone is going to cost me 1"

We really were going to have a wedding. It took place at
the very end of my month, and it may be assumed that the last
remains of my hundred thousand francs went upon it; that was
how the thing ended; that is, my month ended with that, and
after it I received my formal dismissal.

This was how it happened : a week after our arrival in Paris
the General suddenly turned up. He came straight to Blanche,
and from his first call almost Uved with us. He had a lodging of
his own, it is true. Blanche received him J057fully, with shrieks
of laughter, and even flew to embrace him; as things had turned
out, she was unwilling to let him go : and he had to follow her
about everywhere, on the boulevards, and to the theatres, and
to call on her acquaintances, and to take her for drives. The
General was still of use for such purposes; he was of rather
imposing and decorous appearance — he was above the average
in height, with dyed whiskers and moustaches (he had once
served in the Cuirassiers); he was still presentable-looking,

Ii8

though his face was puffy. His manners were superb; he looked
well in evening dress. In Paris he began wearing his decora-
tions. The promenade on the boulevard with a man like this
was not only possible, but advaniageous. The good-natured
and senseless General was immensely delighted with all this;
he had not reckoned upon it at all when he came to see us on
arriving in Paris. He had come, then, almost trembling with
terror; he was afraid that Blanche would make an uproar and
order him to be turned out; and so he was highly delighted at
the changed aspect of the position, and spent the whole month
in a sort of senseless rapture : and he was in the same state when
I left him. I learnt that on the morning of our sudden departure
from Roulettenburg he had some sort of a fit. He had fallen
insensible, and had been cill that week almost like a madman,
talking incessantly. He was being nursed and doctored, but he
suddenly threw up everything, got into the train and flew off to
Paris. Of course, Blanche's reception was the best cure for him;
but the traces of his illness remained long after, in spate of his
joy and his enthusiastic condition. He was utterly incapable of
reflection or even of carrying on a conversation on any serious
subject; when any such topic was brought forward, he confined
himself to nodding his head and ejaculating, "H'm!" at every
word. He often laughed, but it was a nervous, sickly laugh, as
though he were giggling; another time he would sit for hours
looking as black as night, knitting his bushy brows. Of many
things he had no recollection whatever; he had become absent-
minded to an unseemly degree, and had acquired the habit of
talking to himself. Blanche was the only person who could
rouse him; and, indeed, his attacks of gloom and 4epression,
when he hid himself in a comer, meant nothing but that he
hadn't seen Blanche for a long time, or that Blanche had gone
off somewhere without taking him, or had not been nice to him
before going. At the same time he could not say what he
wanted, and did not know why he was depressed and miser-
able. After sitting for two or three hours (I noticed this on
two or three occasions when Blanche had gone out for the
whole day, probably to see Albert), he would suddenly begin
to look about him in a nervous fluster, to stare round, to recol-
lect himself, and seem to be looking for something; but seeing
no one and not remembering the question he meant to ask, he
sank into forgetfulness again till Blanche reappeared, gay,
frisky, gorgeously dressed, with her ringing laugh; she would
run up to him, beging teasing him, and even kissing him — a

Tig

favour which she did not often, however, bestow upon him.
Once the General was so delighted to see her that he even burst
into tears — rl really marvelled at him.

From the very first, Blanche began to plead his cause before
me. Indeed, she waxed eloquent in his behalf; reminded me
that she had betrayed the General for my sake, that she was
almost engaged to him, had given him her word; that he had
abandoned his family on her account, and, lastly, that I had
been in his service and ought to remember that, and that I
ought to be ashamed ... I said nothing while she rattled
away at a terrific pax:e. At last I laughed: and with that the
matter ended, that is, at first, she thought I was a fool: and
at last came to the conclusion that I was a very nice and
accommodating man. In fact, I had the good fortune to win
in the end the complete approval of that excellent young
woman. (Blanche really was, though, a very good-natured
girl — ^in her own way, of course; I had not such a high opinion
of her at first.) "You're a kind and clever man," ^e used to
say to me towards the end, "and . . . and . . . it's only a pity
you are such a fool! You never, never, save anjrthingl"

"Un vrcd russe, im caknouk!" Several times she sent me to
take the General for a walk about the streets, exactly as she
might send her lapdog out with her footman. I took him, how-
ever, to the theatre, and to the Bal-Mabille, and to the restau-
rants. Blanche gave me the money for this, though the General
had some of his own, and he was very fond of taking out his
pocket-book before people. But I had almost to use force to
prevent him from buying a brooch for seven hundred francs, by
which he was fascinated in the Palais Ro37al and of which he
wanted, at all costs, to make Blanche a present. But what was
a brooch of seven hundred frsincs to her? The General hadn't
more than a thousand francs altogether. I could never find out
where he had got that money from. I imagine it was from Mr.
Astley, especially as the latter had paid their bill at the hotel.
As for the General's attitude to me all this time, I believe that
he did not even guess at my relations with Blanche. Though he
had heard vaguely that I had won a fortune, yet he probably
supposed that I was with Blemche in the capacity of a private
secretary or even a servant. Anyway, he always, as before,
spoke to be condescendingly, auliioritatively, and even some-
times fell to scolding me. One morning he amused Blanche and
me unmensely at breakfast. He was not at all ready to take
offence, but suddenly he was huffy with me — why? — I don't

120

know to this day. No doubt he did not know himself. In fact,
he made a speech without a beginning or an end, a bdtcms-
rompus, shouted that I was an impudent boy, that he would give
me a lesson . . . that he would let me know it . . . and so on.
But no one could make out anjrthing from it. Blanche went off
into peals of laughter. At last he was somehow appeased and
taken outfor a walk. I noticed sometimes, however, that he grew
sad, that he was regretting someone and something, he was miss-
ing something in spite of Blanche's presence. On two such occa-
sions he began tafliing to me of himself, but could not express
himself clearly, alluded to his times in the army, to his deceased
wife, to his family affairs, to his property. He would stumble
upon some phrase — and was delighted with it and would repeat
it a hundred times a day, thdugh perhaps it expressed neither
his feelings nor his thoughts. I tried to talk to him about his
children : but he turned off the subject with incoherent babble,
and passed hurriedly to another topic: "Yes, yes, my children,
you are right, my children!" Only once he grew sentimental
— we were with him at the theatre : ' "Those unhappy children 1 ' '
he began suddenly. "Yes, sir, those un — happy clmdren 1" And
several times afterwards that evening he repeated the same
words: "unhappy children 1 " Once, when I began to speak of
Polina, he flew into a frenzy. "She's an ungrateful girl," he
cried. "She's wicked and ungrateful! She has disgraced her
family. If there were laws here I would make her mind her
p's and q's. Yes, indeed, yes, indeed!" As for De Grieux, he
could not bear even to hear his name : "He has been the ruin of
me," he would say, "he has robbed me, he has destroyed me!
He has been my nightmare for the last two years! He has
haunted my dreams for whole months I It's, it's, it's . . . Oh,
never speak to me of him ! "

I saw there was an understanding between them, but, as usual,
I said nothing. Blanche announced the news to me first — ^it
was just a week before we parted: "II a du chance," she
babbled. "Granny really is ill this time, and certainly will die.
Mr. Astley has sent a telegram. You must admit that the General
is her heir, anjnvay, and even if he were not, he would not
interfere with me in an5^thing. In the first place, he has his
pension, and in the second place, he will live in a back room
and will be perfectly happy. I shall be 'Madame le G6n6rale'. I
shall get into a good set" (Blanche was continually dreaming of
this), "in the end I shall be a Russian landowner, j'tmrai im
chateau, des mmtjiks, et puis j'awrai topjours mo<tp million."

121

"Well, what if he begins to be jealous, begins to insist ... on
goodness knows what^— do you understand?"

"Oh, no, now, non, non! How dare he! I have taken pre-
cautions, you needn't be afraid. I have even naade him sign
some lOUs for Albert. The least thing — and he will be arrested;
and he won't dare!"

"Well, marry him . . ."

The marriage was celebrated without any great p>omp; it was
a quiet family affair. Albert was invited and a few other inti-
mate friends. Hortense, Cleopatra and company were studiously
excluded. The bridegroom was extremely interested in his posi-
tion. Blanche herself tied his cravat with her own hands, and
pomaded his head : and in his swallow-tailed coat with his white
tie he looked tres ommne il faut.

"II est pomiamt ires comme il ftmt," Blanche herself observed
to me, coming out of the General's room, as though the idea that
the General was tres comme U fmd was a surprise even to her.
Though I assisted at the whole affair as an idle spectator, yet I
took so little interest in the details that I have to a great extent
forgotten the course of events. I only remember that Blanche
turned out not to be called "de Cominges", and her mamma not
to be Ja veutue "Cominges", but "du Placet". Why they had
been both "de Cominges" till then, I don't know. But the
General remained very much pleased with that, and "du Placet"
pleased him, in fact, better than "de Cominges". On the morn-
ing of the wedding, fully dressed for the part, he kept walking
to and fro in the drawing-room, repeating to himself with a grave
and important air, "Mile. Blanche du Placet! Blanche du
Placet, du Placet! . . . and his countenance beamed with a
certain complacency. At church, before the moire, and at the
wedding breakfast at home, he was not oniy^^jByful but proud.
There was a change in both of them. Blanche, too, had an air
of peculiar dignity.

"I shall have to behave myself quite differently now," she
said to me, perfectly seriously: "mads vois-tu, I never thought
of one very horrid thing : I even fancy, to this day, I can't learn
my surname. Zagoryansky, Zagozj^nsky, Madame la Wn^rale
de Sago — Sago, ces diables de noms russes, enfin madame h
gdndrale a quartwze consomnis! Comme c'est agreaible, n'est-ce
pas?"

At last we parted, and Blanche, that silly Blanche, positively
shed tears when she said good-bye to me. "Tu itais bon enfani,"
she said, whimpering. "Je te croyais bite et tu en anms I'dr.

122

but it suits you." And, pressing my hand at parting, she sud-
denly cried, "Attends!" rushed to her boudoir and, two minutes
later, brought me a banknote for two thousand francs. That I
should never have believed possible I "It may be of use to you.
You may be a very learned owbchitei, but you are an awfully
stupid man. I am not going to give you more than two thousand,
for you'll lose it gambling, anjnvay. Well, good-bye 1 Noiis
serons Umjcmrs bon amis, and if you win, be sure to come to me
ageiin, 0t ti* seras hemrewc!"

I had five hundred francs left of my own. I had besides a
splendid watch that cost a thousand francs, some diamond studs,
and so on, so that I could go on a good time longer without
anxiety. I am sta3dng in this little town on purpose to collect
myself, and, above all, I am waiting for Mr. Astley. I have
learnt for a fact that he will pass through the town and stay here
for twenty-four hours on business. I shall find out about every-
thing: and then — ^then I shall go straight to Homburg. I am
not going to Roulettenburg; not till next year anyway. They
say it is a bad omen to try your luck twice running at the same
tables; and Homburg is the real place for play.

CHAPTER XVII

IT is a year and eight months since I looked at these notes, and
only now in sadness and dejection it has occurred to me to
read them through. So I stopped then at my going to Homburg.
My God! With what a light heart, comparatively speaking, I
wrote those last lines ! Though not with a light heart exactly,
but with a sort of self-confidence, with undaunted hopes I Had
I any doubt of m5^self ? And now more than a year and a half
has passed, and I am, to my own mind, far worse than a beggar 1
Yes, what is being a beggar? A beggar is nothing! I have
simply ruined myself ! However, there is nothing I can compare
myself with, and there is no need to give myself a moral lecture !
Nothing could be stupider than moral reflections at this date!
Oh, self-satisfied people, with what proud satisfaction these
prattlers prepare to deliver their lectures! If only they knew
how thoroughly I understand the loathsomeness of my present
position, they would not be able to bring their tongues to
reprimand me. Why, what, what can they tell me that I do not

123 a

know? And is that the point? The point is t hat- ^oa£.tanurf
the wheel, and all will be changedTand those very moralists will
be the first (I am convinced of that) to come up to congratulate
me with friendly jests. And they will not all turn away from me
as they do now. But, hang them all I What am I now? Zero.
What may I be to-morrow ? To-morrow I may rise from the
dead and begin to live again 1 There are stiU the makings of a
man in me.

I did, in fact, go to Homburg then, but . . . afterwards I
went to Roulettenburg again, and to Spa. I have even been in
Baden, where I went as valet to the councillor Gintse, a
scoundrel, who was my master here. Yes, I was a lackey for
five whole months ! I got a place immediately after coming out
of prison. (I was sent to prison in Roulettenburg for a debt I
made here.) Someone, I don't know who, paid my debt — who
was it? Was it Mr. Astley? Pohna? I don't know, but the debt
was paid; two hundred thalers in all, and I was set free. What
could I do? I entered the service of this Gintse. He is a young
man and frivolous, he Uked to be idle, and I could read and
write in three languages. At first I went into his service as a
sort of secretary at tiiirty guldens a month; but I ended by
becoming a regular valet: he had not the means to keep a
secretary; and he lowered my wages; I had nowhere to go, 1
remained — and in that way became a lackey by my own doing.
I had not enough to eat or to drink in his service, but on the
other hand, in five months I saved up seventy gulden. One
evening in Baden, however, I aimounced to him that I intended
parting from him; the same evening I went to roulette. Oh, how
my heart beat ! No, it was not money that I wanted. All tbat
I wanted then was that next day all these Gintses, all these
ober-kelhters, all these magnificent Baden ladies— that they
might be all talking about me, repeating my story, wondering
at me, admiring me, praising me, and doing homage to my new
success. All these are childish dreams and desires, but . . .
who knows, perhaps I should meet Polina again, too, I should
tell her, and she would see that I was above all these stupid ups
and downs of fate. . . . Oh, it was not money that was dear to
me I I knew I should fling it away to some Blanche again and
should drive in Paris again for three weeks with a pair of my
own horses, costing sixteen thousand francs. I know for certain
that I am not mean; I beUeve that I am not even a spendthrift—
and yet with what a tremor, with what a thrill at my heart, I
hear the croupier's cry: trente et tm. rouge, impair et passe.

124

or: quaire, noir, pair et manqi*e! With what avidity I look at
the gambling table on which louis d'or, friedrichs d'or and
thalers lie scattered : on the piles of gold when they are scattered
from the croupier's shovel like glowing embers, or at the piles
of silver a yard high that lie round the wheel. Even on my way
to the gambling hall, as soon as I hear, two rooms away, the
clink of the scattered money I cdmost go into convulsions.

Ohl that evening, when I took my seventy gulden to tlie
gambling table, was remarkable too. I began witti ten gulden,
staking them again on passe. I have a prejudice ia favour of
passe. I lost. I had sixty gulden left in silver money; I thought
a little and chose zero. I began staking five gulden at a time
on zero; at the third turn the wheel stopped at zero; I almost
died of joy when I received one hundred and seventy-five
gulden; I had not been so delighted when I won a hundred
thousand gulden. I immediately staked a hundred gulden on
roi4>ge — ^it won; the two hundred on rowg-e — it won; the whole of
the four hundred on n-oir — ^it won; the whole eight hundred on
manque — ^it won; altogether with what I had before it made one
thousand seven hundred gulden — and that in less than five
minutes ! Yes, at moments like that one forgets all one's former
failures 1 Why, I had gained this by risking more than life itself,
I dared to risk it, and — there I was again, a man among men.

I took a room at the hotel, locked myself in and sat till three
o'clock coimting over my money. In the morning I woke up,
no longer a lackey. I determined the same day to go to Hom-
burg: I had not been a lackey or been in prison Qiere. Half
an hour before my train left, I set off to stake on two hazards,
no more, and lost fifteen hundred florins. Yet I went to Hom-
burg all the same, and I have been here for a month. . . .

I am living, of course, in continual anxiety. I play for the
tiniest stakes, and I keep waiting for something, calculating,
standing for whole days at the gambling table and watching the
play; I even dream of playing — but I feel that in all this, I have,
as it were, grown stiff and wooden, as though I had sunk into a
muddy swamp. I gather this from my feeling when I met
Mr. Astiey. We had not seen each other since that time, and we
met by accident. This was how it happened : I was walking in
the gardens and reckoning that now I was almost without
money, but that I had fifty gulden — and that I had, moreover,
three days before paid all I owed at the hotel. And so it was
possible for me to go once more to roulette — ^if I were to win
an}rthing, I might be able to go on playing; if I lost I should have

125

to get a lackey's place again, if I did not come across Russians
in want of a tutor. Absorbed in these thoughts, I went my daily
walk, across the park and the forest in the adjoining prindpaJity.

Sometimes I used to walk Uke this for four hours at a time,
and go back to Homburg hungry and tired. I had scarcely gone
out of the gardens in the park, when suddenly J saw on one of
the seats Mr. Astley. He saw me before I saw him, and called
to me. I sat down beside him. Detecting in him a certain
dignity of manner, I instantly moderated my delight; though I
was awfully delighted to see him.

"And so you are here! I thought I should meet you," he
said to me. "Don't trouble yourself to tell me your story; I
know, I know all about it; I know every detail of your life during
this last year and eight months."

"Bah! What a watch you keep on your old friends!" 1
answered. "It is very creditable in you not to forget. . . . Stay,
though, you have given me an idea. Wcisn't it you bought me
out of prison at Roulettenburg where I was imprisoned for debt
for two hundred gulden? Some unknown person paid it for
me."

"No, oh no; it was not I who bought you out when you were
ill prison at Roulettenburg for a debt of two hundred gulden.
But I knew that you were imprisoned for a debt of two hundred
gulden."

"Then you know who did pay my debt? "

"Oh, no, I can't say that I know who bought you out."

"Strange; I don't know any of our Russians; besides, the
Russians here, I imagine, would not do it; at home in Russia the
orthodox may buy out other orthodox Christians. I thought it
must have been some eccentric Englishman who did it as a
freak."

Mr. Astley listened to me with some surprise. 1 believe he
had expected to find me dejected and crushed.

"I am very glad, however, to find that you have quite main-
tained your independence of spirit and even your cheerfuhiess,"
he pronounced, with a rather disagreeable air.

"That is, you are chafing inwardly with vexation at my not
being crushed and humiliated," I said, laughing.

He did not at once understand, but when he imderstood, he
smiled.

"I like your observations: I recognise in those words my
clever, enttiusiastic and, at the same time, cynical old friend;
only Russians can combine in themselves so many opposites at

126

the same time. It is true, a man likes to see even his best friend
humiliated; a great part of friendship rests on humiliation. But
in the present case I assure you that I am genuinely glad that
you are not dejected. Tell me, do you intend to give up
gambling?"

"Oh, damn! I shall give it up at once as soon as I . . ."
"As soon as you have won back what you have lost! Just
what I thought; you needn't say any more — I know — ^you have
spoken unawares, and so you have spoken the truth. Tell me,
l^ve you any occupation except gambUng?"
"No, none. . . ."

He began cross-examining me. I knew nothing. I scarcely
looked into the newspapers, and had literally not opened a single
book all that time. ""'

■'"""You've grown rusty," he observed. "You have not only
given up life, all your interests, private and public, the duties
lof a man and a citizen, your friends (and you really had friends) ,
i — ^you have not only given up your objects, such as they were,
all but gambling — ^you have even given up your memories.
I remember you at an intense and ardent moment of your life;
but I am sure you have forgotten all the best feelings you had
then; your dreams, your most genuine desires now do not rise
i above pair, impmr, rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers,
'and so on, I am sure!"

"Enough, Mr. Astley, please, please don't remind me," 1
cried with vexation, almost with anger, "let me tell you, I've
forgotten absolutely nothing; but I've only for a time put every-
thing out of my mind, even my memories, until I can make a
radical improvement in my circvunstances; then . . . then you
will see, I shall rise again from the dead!"

"You will be here still in ten years' time," he said. "I bet
you I shall remind you of this on this very seat, if I'm alive."
"Well, that's enough," I interrupted impatiently; "and to
prove to you that I am not so forgetful of the past, let me ask :
where is Miss Polina now? If it was not you who got me out of
prison, it must have been her doing. I have had no news of her
of any sort since that time."

"No, oh no, I don't believe she did buy you out. She's in
Switzerland now, and you'll do me a great favour if you leave
off asking about Miss Polina," he said resolutely, and even
with some anger.

"That means that she has wounded you very much!" I
laughed with displeasure.

127

"Miss Polina is of all people deserving of resp>ect the very
best, but I repeat — you will do me a great favour if you cease
questioning me concerning Miss Polina. You never knew her:
and her name on your lips I regard as an insult to my moral
feelings."

"You don't say so! you are wrong, however; besides, what
have I to talk to you about except that, tell me that? Why, all
our memories reaUy amount to that ! Don't be uneasy, though;
I don't want to know your private secret affairs. ... I am
only , interested, so to say, in Miss Polina's external afiaiis.
That you could tell me in a couple of words."

"Certainly, on condition that with those two words all is over.
Miss Polina was ill for a long time; she's ill even now. For some
time she stayed with my mother and sister in the north of
England. Six months ago, her grandmother — ^you remember
that madwoman? — died and left her, personally, a fortune of
seven thousand pounds. At the present time Miss Polina is
travelling with tiie family of my married sister. Her little
brother and sister, too, were provided for by their grand-
mother's will, and are at school in London. The General, her
stepfather, died a month ago in Paris of a stroke. Mile. Blanche
treated him well, but succeeded in getting possession of all he
received from the grandmother. ... I believe that's all."

"And De Grieux? Is not he travelling in Switzerland, too?"

"No, De Grieux is not travelling in Switzerland : and I don't
know where De Grieux is; besides, once for all, I wam you to
avoid such insinuations and ungentlemanly coupUng of names,
or you will certainly have to answer for it to me."

"What! in spite of our friendly relations in the past?"

"Yes, in spite of our friendly relations in the past."

"I beg a thousand pardons, Mr. Astley. But allow me,
though : there is nothing insulting or ungentlemanly about it;
I am not blaming Miss Polina for an5^ing. Besides — a French-
man and a Russian yovmg lady, speaking generally — it's a com-
bination, Mr. Astley, which is beyond your or my explaining or
fully comprehending."

"If you will not mention the name of De Grieux in company
with another name, I should like you to explain what you mean
by the expression of 'the Frenchman and the Russian young
lady'. What do you mean by that 'combination'? Why the
Frenchman exactly and why the Russian yovmg lady?"

"You see you are interested. But that's a long story, Mr.
Astley. You need to understand many things first. But it

128

is an important question, however absurd it may seem at first
sight, lie Frenchman, -Mr. Astley, is the product of a finished
beautiful tradition. You, as a Briton, may not agree with this;
I, as a Russian, do not either, from envy maybe; but our young
ladies may be of a different opinion. You may think Racine
artificial, affected and perfumed; probably you won't even read
him. I, too, think him artificial, affected and perfumed — from
one point of view even absurd; but he is charming, Mr. Astley,
and, what is more, he is a great poet, whether we like it or not.
The national type of Frenchman, or, rather, of Parisian, had
been moulded into elegant forms while we were still bears. The
Revolution inherited &e traditions of the aristocracy. Now even
the vulgarest Frenchman has manners, modes of address,
expressions and even thoughts, of perfectly elegant form,
though his own initiative, his own soul and heart, have had no
part in the creation of that form; it has all come to him through
inheritance. Well, Mr. Astley, I must inform you now that there
is not a creature on the eajfii more confiding, and more candid
than a good, clean and not too sophisticated Russian girl. De
Grieux, appearing in a peculiar role, masquerading, can
conquer her heart with extraordinary ease; he has elegance of
form, Mr. Astley, and the young lady takes this form for his
individual soul, as the natural form of his soul and his heart,
and not as an external garment, which has come to him by
inheritance. Though it will greatly displease you, I must tell
you that Englishmen are for the most part awkward and in-
elegant, and Russians are rather quick to detect beauty, and
are eager for it. But to detect beauty of soul and originality
of character needs incomparably more independence and
freedom than is to be found in our women, above all in our
yoimg ladies — and of course ever so much more experience.
Miss Polina — ^forgive me, the word is spoken and one can't
take it back — needs a long, long time to bring herself to prefer
you to the scoundrel De Grieux. She thinks highly of you,
becomes your friend, opens all her heart to you; but yet the
hateful scoundrel, the base and petty money-grubber, De
Grieux, will still dominate her heart. Mere obstinacy and
vanity, so to say, will maintain his supremacy, because at one
time this De Grieux appeared to her with the halo of an elegant
marquis, a disillusioned liberal, who is supposed to have ruined
himself to help her family and her frivolous stepfather. All these
shams have been discovered later on. But the fact that they
have been discovered makes no difference: an}nvay, what she

129

wants is the original De Grieux — ^that's what she wants ! And
the more she hates the present De Grieux the more she pines for
the original one, though he existed only in her imagination.
You are a sugar-boiler, Mr. Astley."

"Yes, I am a partner in the well-known firm. Level & Co."

"Well, you see, Mr. Astley, one one side — a sugax-boiler, and
on the other — Apollo Belvedere; it is somewhat incongruous.
And I am not even a sugar-boiler; I am simply a paltry gambler
at roulette, and have even been a lackey, which I think Miss
Polina knows very well, as I fancy she has good detectives."

"You are exasperated, and that is why you talk all this
nonsense," Mr. Astley said coolly, after a moment's thought.
"Besides, there is notiiing original in what you say."

"I admit that! But the awful thing is, my noble friend, that
however stale, however hackneyed, however farcical my state-
ments may be — ^they are nevertiieless true ! Anjnuray, you and
I have made no way at all!"

"That's disgusting nonsense . . . because, because ... let
me tell you!" Mr. Astley, with flashing eyes, pronounced in a
quivering voice, "let me tell you, you ungrateful, unwcothy,
shallow and unhappy man, that I am come to Homburg
expressly at her wish, to see you, to have a long and open con-
versation with you and to tell her everjdiiing — what you are
feeling, thinking, hoping, and . . . what you remember!"

"Is it possible? Is it possible?" I cried, and tears rushed
in streams from my eyes.

I could not restrain them. I believe it was the first time it
happened in my life.

"Yes, unhappy man, she loved you, and I can tell you that,
because you are — a lost man ! What is more, if I were to tell
you that she loves you to this day — ^you would stay here just
the samel Yes, you have destroyed yourself. You had some
abilities, a lively disposition, and were not a bad fellow; you
might have even been of service to your country, which is in
such need of men, but — ^you will remain here, and your life is
over. I don't blame you. To my mind all Russians are lilce
that, or disposed to be like that. If it is not roulette it is some-
thing similar. The exceptions are very rare. You are not the
first who does not understand the meaning of work (I am not
talking of your peasantry). Roulette is a game pre-eminently
for the Russians. So far you've been honest and preferred
serving as a lackey to stealing. . . . But I dread to think what
may come in the future. Enough, good-bjre! No doubt you

130

are in want of money? Here are ten louis d'or from me. I
won't give you more, for you'll gjimble it away in any case.
Take it and good-bye 1 Take itl"

"No, Mr. Astley, after all you have said."

"Ta — ake it!" he cried. "I believe that you are still an
honourable man, and I give it as a true friend gives to another
friend. If I were sure that you would throw up gambling, leave
Homburg and would return to your own countay, I would be
ready to give you at once a thousand pounds to begin a new
career. But I don't give you a thousand pounds: I give you
only ten louis d'or just because a thousand pounds and ten louis
d'or cire just the same to you now; it's all the same — ^you'll
gamble it away. Take it and good-bye."

"I will take it if you will let me embrace you at parting."

"Oh, with pleasure!"

We embraced with sincere feeUng, and Mr. Astley went away.

No, he is wrong ! If I was crude and silly about Polina and
De Grieux, he was crude and hasty about Russians. I say
nothing of myself. However . . . however, all that is not the
point for the time : that is all words, words, and words; deeds
are what are wanted! Switzerland is the great thing now!
To-morrow . . . Oh, if only it were possible to set off to-
morrow! To begin anew, to rise again. I must show them.
. . . Let Polina know that I still can be a man. I have only
to . . . But now it's too late — ^but to-morrow ... oh, I have
a presentiment and it cannot fail to be! I have now fifteen
louis d'or, and I have begun with fifteen gulden ! If one begins
carefully . . . and can I, can I be such a baby! Can I fail
to understand that I am a lost man, but — can I not rise again !
Yes! I have only for once in my life to be prudent and
patient and — ^that is all! I have only for once to show will
power and in one hour I can transform my destiny ! The great
thing is will power. Only remember what happened to me seven
months ago at Roulettenburg just before my final failure. Oh 1
it was a remarkable instance of determination: I had lost
everything, then, everjTthing. ... I was going out of the
Casino, I looked, there was still one gulden in my waistcoat
pocket: "Then I shall have something for dinner," I thought.
But after I had gone a htmdred paces I changed my mind and
went back. I staked that gulden on manque (that time it was
on manqtie), and there really is something peculiar in the feel-
ing when, alone in a strange land, far from home and from
friends, not knowing whether you will have anything to eat

131 E*

that day — you stake your last gulden, your very last! I won,
and twenty minutes later I went out of the Casino, having a
hundred and seventy gulden in my pocket. That's a fact!
That's what the last gulden can sometimes do! And what if
I had lost heart then? What if I had not dared to risk it? ...
To-morrow, to-morrow it will all be over 1

i3«

POOR PEOPLE

A NOVEL

Ah, these story tellersl If only they would write anything useful, pleasant,
soothing, but they will unearth all sorts of hidden things! ... I would
prohibit their writingi Why, it is beyond everything; you read . . . and you
can't help t hinkin g — and then all sorts of foolishness comes into your head;
I would really prohibit their writing; I would simply prohibit it altogether.

Prince V. F. Odobvsky.

April 8.

My precious Varvara Alexyevna,

I was happy yesterday, inunensely happy, impossibly
happy! For once in your hfe, you obstinate person, you
obeyed me. At eight o'clock in the evening I woke up (you
know, Uttle mother, that I love a little nap of an hour or two
when my work is over). I got out a candle, I got paper ready,
was mending a pen when suddenly I chanced to raise my eyes
— ^upon my word it set my heart dancing ! So you understood
what I wanted, what was my heart's desire! I saw a tiny
comer of your window-curtain twitched back and caught
against the pot of balsams, just exactly as I hinted that day.
TTien I fancied I caught a glimpse of your little face at the
window, that you were looking at me from your little room,
that you were thinking of me. And how vexed I was, my
darling, that I could not make out your charming Uttle face
distinctly! There was a time when we, too, could see clearly,
dearie. It is poor fim being old, my own! Nowadays every-
thing seems sort of spotty before my eyes; if one works a little
in the evening, writes something, one's eyes are so red and
tearful in the morning that one is really ashamed before
strangers. In my imagination, though, your smile was beaming,
my little angel, your kind friendly Uttle smile; and I had just
the same sensation in my heart as when I kissed you, Varinka,
do you remember, Uttle angel? Do you know, my darUng, I
even fancied that you shook your little finger at me? Did you,
you naughty girl? You must be sure to describe all that fully
in your letter.

Come, what do you think of our little plan about your
curtain, Varinka? It is delightful, isn't it? Whether I am

133

sitting at work, or lying down for a nap, or waking up, I know
that you are thinking about me over liiere, you are remember-
ing me and that you are well and cheerful. You drop the
curtain — ^it means "Good-bye, Makax Alexyevitch, it's bed-
time!" You draw it up — "Good morning, Makar Alexyevitch,
how have you slept or are you quite well, Makar Alexyevitch?
As for me, thank God, I am well and aU right!" You see,
my darling, what a clever idea; there is no need of letters!
It's cunning, isn't it? And you know it was my idea. What
do you say to me now, Varvara Alevyevna?

I beg to inform you, Varvara Alexyevna, my dear, that
I slept last night excellently, contrary to my expectations, at
which I am very much pleased; though in new lodgings, after
moving, it is always difficult to sleep; there is always some
little tiling amiss.

I got up this morning as gay as a lark ! What a fine morning
it was, my darling! Our window was opened; the sun shone
so brightly; the birds were chirping; the air was full of the
scents of spring and all nature seemed coming back to life—
and ever3H±iing else was to correspond; everything was right,
to fit the spring. I even had rather pleasant dreams to-day,
and my dreams were all of you, Varinka. I compared you
with a bird of the air created for the delight of men and the
adornment of nature. Then I thought, Varinka, that we men,
living in care and anxiety, must envy the careless and innocent
happiness of the birds of the air — and more of the same sort,
like that; that is, I went on making such far-fetched com-
parisons. I have a book, Varinka, and there is the same thought
in it, all very exactly described. I write this, my darling,
because one has all sorts of dreams, you know. And now it's
spring-time, so one's thoughts are always so pleasant; witty,
amusing, and tender dreams visit one; everything is in a rosy
light. That is why I have written all this; though, indeed, I
took it all out of the book. The author there expresses the same
desire in verse and writes:

"Why am I not a bird, a bird of prey!"

And so on, and so on. There are all sorts of thoughts in it, but
never mind them now!

Oh, where were you going this morning, Varvara Alexyevna?
Before I had begun to get ready for the office, you flew out of
your room exactly like a bird of the air and crossed the yard,

134

looking so gay. How glad it made me to look at you! Ah,
Varinka, Varinka! — You must not be sad; tears are no help
to sorrow; I know that, my dear, I know it from experience.
Now you are so comfortable and you are getting a little
stronger, too.

.Well, how is your Fedora? Ah, what a good-natured woman
she is ! You must write and teU me, Varinka, how you get on
with her now and whether you are satisfied with everything.
Fedora is rather a grumbler; but you must not mind that,
Varinka. God bless her 1 She has such a good heart. I have
written to you already about Teresa here — She, too, is a good-
natured and trustworthy woman. And how uneasy I was about
our letters! How were they to be delivered? And behold the
Lord sent us Teresa to make us happy. She is a good-natured
woman, mild and long-suffering. But our landlady is simply
merciless. She squeezes her at work like a rag.

Well, what a hole I have got into, Varvara Alexyevna ! It
is a lodging! I used to live like a bird in the woods, as you
know yourself — ^it was so quiet and still that if a fly flew across
the room you could hear it. Here it is all noise, shouting, up-
roar! But of course you don't know how it is all arranged
here. Imagine a long passage, absolutely dark and very dirty.
On the right hand there is a blank wall, and on the left, doors
and doors, like the rooms in a hotel, in a long row. Well, these
are lodgings and there is one room in each; there are people
living by twos and by threes in one room. It is no use expecting
order — ^it is a regular Noah's ark! They seem good sort of
people, though, all so well educated and learned. One is in the
service, a weU-read man (he is somewhere in the literary depart-
ment): he talks about Homer and Brambeus and authors of
all sorts: he talks about everything; a very intelligent man!
There are two officers who do nothing but play cards. There
is a naval man; and an English teacher.

Wait a bit, I will divert you, my darling; I will describe them
satirically in my next letter; that is, I will tell you what they
are like in full detail. Our landlady is a very untidy little old
woman, she goes about all day long in slippers and a dressing-
gown, and all day long she is scolding at Teresa. I live in the
kitchen, or rather, to be more accurate, there is a room near the
kitchen (and our kitchen, I ought to tell you, is clean, light and
very nice), a httle room, a modest comer ... or ra&er the
kitchen is a big room of three windows so I have a partition
running along the inside wall, so that it makes as it were

135

another room, an extra lodging; it is roomy and comfortable,
and there is a window and all — ^in fact, every convenience.
Well, so that is my little comer. So don't you imagine, my
darling, there is anythiag else about it, any mysterious sig-
nificance in it; "here he is living in the kitchen!" you'll say.
Well, if you like, I really am living in the kitchen, behind tte
partition, but that is nothing; I am quite private, apart from
everyone, quiet and snug. I have put in a bed, a table, a chest
of drawers and a couple of chairs, and I have hung up the
ikon. It is true there are better lodgings — perhaps there may
be much better, but convenience is the great thing; I have
arranged it aJI for my own convenience, you know, and you
must not imagine it is for anything else. Your Uttle window
is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, one catches
glimpses of you passing — ^it is more cheerful for a j)oor, lonely
feUow like me, and cheaper, too. The very cheapest room here
with board costs thirty-five roubles in paper: beyond my
means; but my lodging costs me seven roubles in paper and
my board five in silver — that is, twenty-four and a half, and
before I used to pay thirty and make it up by going without
a great many things. I (£d not always have tea, but now I
can spare enough for tea and sugar, too. And you know, my
dear, one is ashamed as it were not to drink tea; here they are
all well-to-do people so one feels ashamed. One drinks it,
Varinka, for the sake of the other people, for the look of the
thing; for m3rself I don't care, I am not particular. Think, too,
of pocket-money — one must have a certain amount — then some
sort of boots and clothes — is there much left? My salary is all
I have. I am content and don't repine. It is sufficient. It has
been sufficient for several years; there are extras, too.

Well, good-bye, my angel. I have bought a couple of pots
of balsam and geranium — quite cheap — but perhaps you love
mignonette? Well, there is mignonette, too, you vraite and
tell me; be sure to write me everything as fully as possible, you
know. Don't you imagine anything, though, or have any
doubts about my having taken such a room, Varinka dear; no,
it is my own convenience made me take it, and only the con-
venience of it tempted me. I am putting by money, you know,
my darling, I am saving up: I have quite a lot of money.
You must not think I am such a softy that a fly might knock
me down with his wing. No, indeed, my own, I am not a fool,
and I have as strong a will as a man of resolute and tranquil
soul ought to have. Good-bye, my angel! I have scribbled

.136

you almost two sheets and I ought to have been at the office
long ago. I kiss your fingers, my own, and remain

Your humble and faithful friend

Makar Dyevushkin.

P.S. — One thing I beg you : answer me as fully as possible,
my angel. I am sending you a pound of sweets with this,
Varinka. You eat them up and may they do you good, and
for God's sake do not worry about me and make a fuss. Well,
good-bye then, my precious.

April 8.
Dear Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

Do you know I shall have to quarrel with you outright
at last. I swear to you, dear Makar Alexyevitch, that it really
hurts me to take your presents. I know what they cost you,
how you deny yourself, and deprive yourself of what is
necessary. How many times have I told you that I need
nothing, absolutely nothing; that I shall never be able to repay
you for the kindnesses you have showered upton me? And why
have you sent me these flowers? Well, the balsams I don't
mind, but why the geranium? I have only to drop an in-
cautious word, for instance, about that geranium, and you rush
off and buy it. I am sure it must have been expensive? How
charming the flowers are! Crimson, in little crosses. Where
did you get such a pretty geraniimi? I have put it in the
middle of the window in the most conspicuous place; I am
putting a bench on the floor and arranging the rest of the
flowers on the bench; you just wait until I get rich myself!
Fedora is overjoyed; it's like paradise now, in our room — so
clean, so bright!

Now, why those sweets? Upon my word, I guessed at once
from your letter that there was something amiss with you —
nature and spring and the sweet scents and the birds chirping.
"What's this," I thought, "isn't it poetry?" Yes, indeed,
your letter ought to have been in verse, that was all that was
wanting, Makar Alexyevitch ! There are the tender sentiments
and dreams in roseate hues — everything in it! As for the
curtain, I never thought of it; I suppose it got hitched up of
itself when I moved the flower-pots, so there !

Ah, Makar Alexyevitch! Whatever you may say, however
you may reckon over your income to deceive me, to jwove that
your money is all spent on yourself, you won't take me in and

137

you won't hide anything from me. It is clear that you are
depriving yourself of necessities for my sake. What possessed
you, for instance, to talce such a lodging? Why, you will be
disturbed and worried; you are cramped for room, uncomfort-
able. You love soUtude, and here, goodness knows what you
have all about you I You might Uve a great deal better, jud^e
from your salary. Fedora says you used to Mve ever so much
better than you do now. Can you have spent all your life like
this in solitude, in privation, without pleasure, without a
friendly affectionate word, a lodger among strangers? Ah, dear
friend, how sorry I am for you! Take care of your health,
\, anyway, Makar Alexyevitchl You say your eyes are weak;
so you must not write by candlelight; why write? Your devo-
tion to your work must be known to your superiors without
that.

Once more I entreat you not to spend so much money on me.
I know that you love me, but you are not well off yourself. . . .
I got up this morning feeling gay, too. I was so happy; Fedora
had been at work a long time and had got work for me, too.
I was so delighted; I only went out to buy silk and then I set
to work. The whole morning I felt so lighthearted, I was so
gay I But now it is all black thoughts and sadness again; my
heart keeps aching.

Ah, what will become of me, what will be my fate! What
is painful is that I am in such uncertainty, that I have no future
to look forward to, that I cannot even guess what will become
of me. It is dreadful to look back, too. There is such sorrow
in the past, and my heart is torn in two at the very memory
of it. All my life I shall be in suffering, thjmks to tiie wicked
people who have ruined me.

It is getting dark. Time for work. I should have liked to
have written to you of lots of things but I have not the time,
I must get to work. I must make haste. Of course letters are
a good thing; they make it more cheerful, anyway. But why
do you never come to see us yourself? Why is that, Makar
Alexyevitch? Now we are so near, you know, and sometimes
you surely can make time. Please do come I I have seen your
Teresa. She looks such a sickly creature; I felt sorry for her
and gave her twenty kopecks. Yes! I was almost forgetting:
you must write to me all about your life and your surroundings
as fully as possible. What sort of people are they about you
and do you get on with them? I am longing to know all that.
Mind you write to me ! To-day I will hitch up the curtain on

138

purpose. You should go to bed earlier; last night I saw your
light till midnight. Well, good-bye. To-day I am miserable
and bored and sad ! It seems it is an unlucky day 1 Good-bye.

Yours,

Varvara Dobroselov.

April 8.
Dear Madam, Varvara Alexyevna,

Yes, dear friend, yes, my own, it seems it was a bad day
for poor luckless mel Yes; you mocked at an old man like me,
Varvara Alexyevna! It was my fault, though, entirely my
fault I I ought not in my old age, with scarcely any hair on
my head, to have launched out into l}7rical nonsense and fine
phrases. . . . And I will say more, my dear: man is some-
times a strange creature, very strange. My goodness I he
begins talking of something and is carried away &ectlyl And
what comes of it, what does it lead to? Why, absolutely
nothing comes of it, and it leads to such nonsense that — Lord
preserve me! I am not angry, Varinka dear, only I am very
much vexed to remember it all, vexed that I wrote to you in
such a foolish, high-flown way. And I went to the office to-day
so cock-a-hoop; there was such radiance in my heart. For no
rh5mie or reason there was a regular holiday in my soul; I felt
so gay. I took up my papers eagerly — but what did it all
amount to! As soon as I looked about me, everything was
as before, grey and dingy. Still the same ink-spots, the same
tables and papers, and I, too, was just the same; as I always
have been, so I was still — so what reason was there to mount
upon Pegasus? And what was it all due to? The sun peeping
out and the sky growing blue! Was that it? And how could
I talk of the scents of spring? when you never know what there
may be in our yard under the windows ! I suppose I fancied
all that in my foolishness. You know a man does sometimes
make such mistakes in his own feelings and writes nonsense.
That is due to nothing but foolish, excessive warmth of heart.

I did not walk but crawled home. For no particular reason
my head had begun to ache; well that, to t>e sure, was one thing
on the top of another. (I suppose I got a chill to my spine.)
I was so delighted with the spring, like a fool, that I went out
in a thin greatcoat. And you were mistaken in my feelings,
my dear!

You took my outpouring of them quite in the wrong way.
I was inspired by fatherly affection — nothing but a pure fatherly

139

affection, Varvara Alexyevna. For I take the place of a father
to you, in your sad fatherless and motherless state; I say this
iiom my soul, from a pure heart, as a relation. After all,
though, I am but a distant relation, as the proverb says "only
the seventh water on the jelly," still I am a relation and now
your nearest relation and protector; seeing that where you had
most right to look for protection and support you have met
with insult and treachery. As for verses, let me teU you, my
love, it would not be seemly for me in my old age to be making
verses. Poetry is nonsense ! Why, boys are thrashed at school
nowadays for making poetry ... so that is how it is, my
dear. . . .

What are you writing to me, Varvara Alexyevna, about
comfort, about quiet and all sprts of things? I am not par-
ticular, my dear soul, I am not exacting. I have never Uved
better than I am doing now; so why should I be hard to please
in my old age? I am well fed and clothed and shod; and it
is not for us to indulge our whims 1 We are not royalties ! My
father was not of noble rank and his income was less than
mine for his whole family. I have not lived in the lap of
luxury! However, if I must tell the truth, everything was a
good deal better in my old lodging; it was more roomy and
convenient, dear friend. Of course my present lodging is nice,
even in some respects more cheerful, and more varied if you
like; I have nothing to say against that but yet I regret the
old one. We old, that is elderly people, get used to old things
as though to something akin to us. The room was a little one,
you know; the walls were . . . there, what is the use of talk-
ing! . . . the walls were like all other walls, they don't
matter, and yet remembering all my past makes me depressed
. . . it's a strange thing: it's painful, yet the memories are, as
it were, pleasant. Even what was nasty, what I was vexed
with at the time, is, as it were, purified from nastiness in my
memory and presents itself in an attractive shape to my
imagination. We lived peacefully, Varinka, I and my old land-
lady who is dead. I remember my old landlady with a sad
feeling now. She was a good woman and did not charge me
much for my lodging. She used to knit all sorts of rugs out of
rags on needles a yard long. She used to do nothing else. We
used to share light and fuel, so we worked at one table. She
had a grand-daughter, Masha — I remember her quite a little
thing. Now she must be a girl of thirteen. She was such a
mischievous little thing — very merry, always kept us amused,

140

and we lived together, the three of us. Sometimes in the long
winter evenings we would sit down to the round table, drink
a cup of tea and then set to work. And to keep Masha amused
and out of mischief the old lady used to begin to tell tales.
And what tales they were ! A sensible intelligent man would
listen to them with pleasure, let alone a child. Why, I used to
light my pipe and be so interested that I forgot my work. And
the child, our little mischief, would be so grave, she would lean
her rosy cheek on her Uttle hand, open her pretty Uttle mouth
and, if the story were the least bit terrible, she would huddle
up to the old woman. And we Uked to look at her; and did
not notice how the candle wanted snuffing nor hear the wind
roaring and the storm raging outside.

We had a happy life, Varinka, and we Hved together for
almost twenty years.

But how I have been prattling on ! Perhaps you don't care
for such a subject, and it is not very cheering for me to
remember it, especially just now in the twihght. Teresa's busy
about something, my head aches and my back aches a little,
too. And my thoughts are so queer, they seem to be aching
cis well. I am sad to-day, Varinka!

What's this you write, my dear? How can I come and see
you? My darUng, what would people say? Why, I should
have to cross the yard, our folks would notice it, would begin
asking questions — ^there would be gossip, there would be
scandal, they would put a wrong construction on it. No, my
angel, I had better see you to-morrow at the evening service,
that will be more sensible and more prudent for both of us.
And don't be vexed with me, my precious, for writing you such
a letter; reading it over I see it is all so incoherent. I am an
old man, Varinka, and not well-educated; I had no education
in my youth and now I could get nothing into my head if I
began studying over again. I am aware, Varinka, that I am
no hand at writing, and I know without anyone else pointing it
out and laughing at me that if I were to try to write something
more amusing I should only write nonsense.

I saw you at your window to-day, I saw you let down your
blind. Good-bye, good-bye, God keep you! Good-bye,
Varvara Alexyevna.

Your disinterested friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

P.S. — I can't write satirical accounts of anyone now, my

141

dear. I am too old, Varvara Alexyevna, to be facetioiis, and
I should make myself a laughing-stock; as the proverb has it:
"those who live in glass houses should not throw stones."

April 9.
Dear Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

Come, are not you ashamed, Makar Alexyevitch, my
friend and benefactor, to be so depressed and naughty? Surely
you are not offended! Oh, I am often too hasty, but I never
thought that you would take my words for a biting jest. Believe
me, I could never dare to jest at your age and your character.
It has all happened through my thoughtlessness, or rather
from my being horribly duS, and dullness may drive one to
an57thing! I tiiought that you meant to make fun yourself
in your letter. I felt dreadfully sad when I saw that you were
displeased with me. No, my dear friend and benefactor, you
are wrong if you ever suspect me of being unfriendly and un-
grateful. In my heart I know how to appreciate all you have
done for me, defending me from wicked people, from their
persecution and hatred. I shall pray for you always, and if
my prayer rises to God and heaven accepts it you will be
happy.

I feel very unwell to-day. I am feverish and shivering by
turns. Fedora is very anxious about me. There is no need for
you to be ashamed to come and see us, Makar Alexyevitch;
what business is it of other people's! We are acquaintances,
and that is all about it. . . .

Good-bye, Makar Alexyevitch. I have nothing more to write
now, and indeed I can't write; I am horribly unwell. I beg
you once more not to be angry with me and to rest assured
of the invariable respect and devotion.

With which I have the honour to remain.

Your most devoted and obedient servant,

Varvaba Dobroselov.

April 12.
Dear Madam, Varvara Alexyevna,

Oh, my honey, what is the matter with youl This is how
you frighten me every time. I write to you in every letter to
take care of yourself, to wrap yourself up, not to go out in bad
weather, to be cautious in every way — and, my angel, you
don't heed me. Ah, my darling, you are just like some chUd!
Why, you are frail, frail as a little straw, I know that. If there

142

is the least little wind, you fall ill. So you must be careful,
look after yourself, avoid risks and not reduce your friends to
grief and distress.

You express the desire, dear Varinka, to have a full account
of my daily life and all my surroundings. I gladly hasten to
cany out your wish, my dear. I will begin from the beginning,
my love : it will be more orderly.

To begin with, the staircases to the front entrance are very
passable in our house; especially the main staircase — it is clean,
light, wide, all cast-iron and mahogany, but don't ask about
the backstairs: winding like a screw, damp, dirty, with stej»
broken and the walls so greasy that your hand sticks when
you lean against them. On every landing there are boxes,
broken chairs and cupboards, rags hung out, windows broken,
tubs stand about full of all sorts of dirt and Utter, eggshells
and the refuse of fish; there is a horrid smell ... in fact it
is not nice.

I have already described the arrangement of the rooms; it
is convenient, there is no denjmig; that is true, but it is rather
stuffy in them. I don't mean that there is a bad smell, but,
if I may so express it, a rather decaying, acrid, sweetish smell.
At first it makes an unfavourable impression, but that is of no
consequence; one has only to be a couple of minutes among
us and it passes off and you don't notice how it passes off for
you begin to smell bad yourself, your clothes smell, your hands
smell and ever5^hing smells — well, you get used to it. Siskins
simply die with us. The naval man is just buying the fifth —
they can't live in our air and that is the long and short of it.
Our kitchen is big, roomy and Ught. In the mornings, it is
true, it is rather stifling when they are cooking fish or meat
and splashing and slopping water everywhere, but in the
evening it is paradise. In our kitchen there is alwajTs old linen
hanging on a line; cind as my room is not far off, that is, is
almost part of the kitchen, the smell of it does worry me a little;
but no matter, in time one gets used to anything.

Very early in the morning the hubbub begins, people moving
about, walking, knocking — everyone who has to is getting up,
some to go to the office, others about their own business; they
all begin drinking tea. The samovars for the most part belong
to the landlady; there are few of them, so we all use them in
turn, and if anyone goes with his teapot out of his turn, he
catches it.

I, for instance, the first time made that mistake, and . . .

143

but why describe it? I made the acquaintance of everyone
at once. The navcil man was the first I got to know; he is
such an open fellow, told me everything : about his father and
mother, about his sister married to an assessor in Tula, and
about liie town of Kronstadt. He promised to protect me and
at once invited me to tea with him. J found him in the room
where they usually play cards. There they gave me tea and
were very insistent that I should play a game of chance with
them. Whether they were laughing at me or not I don't know,
but they were losing the whole night and they were still playing
when I went away. Chalk, cards — and the room so fuU of
smoke that it made my eyes smart. I did not play and they at
once observed that I was talking of philosophy. After that no
one said another word to me the whole time; but to tell the
truth I WEis glad of it. I am not going to see them now; it's
gambling with them, pure gambling. The clerk in the literary
department has little gatherings in the evening, too. Well,
there it is nice, quiet, harmless and delicate; everything is on a
refined footing.

Well, Varinka, I will remark in passing that our landlady is
a very horrid woman and a regular old hag. You've seen
Teresa. You know what she is like, as thin as a plucked, dried-
up chicken. There are two of them in the house, Teresa and
Faldoni. I don't know whether he has any other name, he
always answers to that one and everyone calls him that. He is
a red-haired, foul-tongued Finn, with only one eye and a snub
nose : he is always swearing at Teresa, they almost fight.

On the whole life here is not exactly perfect at all times. . . .

If only all would go to sleep at once at night and be quiet-
that never happens. They are for ever sitting somewhere play-
ing, and sometimes things go on that one would be ashamed
to describe. By now I have grown accustomed to it; but I
wonder how people with families get along in such a Bedlam.
There is a whole family of poor creatures living in one of oui
landlady's rooms, not in the same row with the other lodgings
but on the other side, in a comer apart. They are quiet people!
No one hears anything of them. They live in one little room
dividing it with a screen. He is a clerk out of work, discharged
from the service seven years ago for something. His name is
Gorshkov — such a grey little man; he goes about in such
greasy, such threadbare clothes that it is sad to see him; ever
so much worse than mine. He is a pitiful, decrepit figure (we
sometimes meet in the passage); his knees shake, his hands

144

shake, his head shakes, from some illness I suppose, pool
fellow. He is timid, afraid of everyone and sidles dong edge-
ways; I am shy at times, but he is a great deal worse. His
family consists of a wife and three children. The eldest, a boy,
is just like his father, just as frail. The wife was once very
good-looking, even now one can see it; she, poor thing, goes
about in pitiful tatters. They are in debt to the landlady, I have
heard, she is none too gracious to them. I have heard, too,
that there is some unpleasant business hanging over Gorshkov
in connection with which he lost his place. . . . Whether it is
a lawsuit — ^whether he is to be tried, or prosecuted, or what,
I can't tell you for certain. Poor they are, mercy on usl It is
always still and quiet in their room as if no one were living
there. There is no sound even of the children. And it never
happens that the children frolic about and play, and that is
a bad sign. One evening I happened to pass their door; it was
unusually quiet in the house at the time; I heard a sobbing,
then a whisper, then sobbing again as though they were crying
but so quietly, so pitifully that it was heart-rending, and the
thought of those poor creatures haunted me all night so that
I could not get to sleep properly.

Well, good-bye, my precious little friend, Varinka. I have
described everything to the best of my abilities. I have been
thinking of nothing but you all day. My heart aches over you,
my dear. I know, my love, you have no warm cloak. Ah!
these Petersburg springs, these winds and rain mixed with
snow — ^they'll be the death of me, Varinka! Such salubrious
airs. Lord preserve us!

Don't scorn my description, my love. I have no style,
Varinka, no style whatever. I only wish I had. I write just
what comes into my head only to cheer you up with something.
If only I had had some education it would have been a different
matter, but how much education have I had? Not a ha'porth.

Always your faithful friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

April 25.
Honoured Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

I met my cousin Sasha to-day! It is horrible! She will
be ruined too, poor thing! I heard, too, from other sources
that Anna Fyodorovna is still making inquiries about me. It
seems as though she will never leave off persecuting me. She
says that she wants to forgive me, to forget all the past and

145

that she must come and see me. She says that you are no
relation to me at all, that she is a nearer relation, that you
have no right to meddle in our family affairs and that it is
shameful and shocking to live on your charity and at your
expense. . . . She says that I have forgotten her hospitalily,
that she saved mother and me from starving to death, perhaps,
that she gave us food and drink, and for more than a year
and a half was put to expense on our account, and that besides
all that she forgave us a debt. Even mother she will not spare!
and if only poor mother knew how they have treated me! God
sees it 1 ... Anna Fyodorovna says that I was so silly that I
did not know how to take advantage of my luck, that she put
me in the way of good luck, that she is not to blame for any-
thing else, and that I myself was not able or perhaps was not
anxious to defend my own honour. Who was to blame in that,
great God I She says that Mr. Bykov was perfectly right and
that he would not marry just anybody who . . . but why
write it!

It is cruel to hear such falsehoods, Makar Alexyevitchl 1
can't tell you what a state I am in now. I am trembling,
crying, sobbing. I have been two hours over writing this letter
to you. I thought that at least she recognised how wrongly she
had treated me; and you see what she is now!

For God's saJce don't be alarmed, my friend, the one friend
who wishes me well ! Fedora exaggerates everything, I am not
ill. I only caught cold a little yesterday when I went to the
requiem service for mother at Volkovo. Why did you not come
with me? I begged you so much to do so. Ah, my poor, poor
mother, if she could rise from the grave, if she could see how
they have treated me I V. D.

May 20.
My daelinc Vaeinka,

I send you a few grapes, my love; I am told they are good
for a convalescent and the doctor recommends them for quench-
ing the thirst — simply for thirst. You were longing the other
day for a few roses, my dcirling, so I am sencfing you some
now. Have you any appetite, my love ?t— that is the most
important thing.

Thank God, though, that it is all over and done with, and
that our troubles, too, will be soon at an end. We must give
thanks to haven!
As for books, I cannot get hold of them anywhere for the

146

moment. I am told there is a good book here written in very
fine language; they say it is good, I have not read it m}reelf,
but it is very much praised here. I have asked for it and they
have promised to lend it me, only will you read it? You are so
hard to please in that line; it is difficult to satisfy your taste,
I know that already, my darling. No doubt you want poetry,
inspiration, lyrics — well, I will get poems too, I will get any-
thing; there is a manuscript book full of extracts here.

I am getting on very well. Please don't be uneasy about
me, my dearie. What Fedora told you about me is all non-
sense; you tell her that she told a he, be sure to tell her so, the
wicked gossip! ... I have not sold my new uniform. And
why should I . . . judge for yourself, why should I sell it?
Here, I am told, I have forty roubles bonus coming to me, so
why should I sell it? Don't you worry, my precious; she's
suspicious, your Fedora, she's suspicious. We shall get on
splendidly, my darling! Only you get well, my angel, for
God's sake, get well. Don't grieve your old friend, ^^^o told
you I had grown thin? It is slander, slander again! I am well
and hearty and getting so fat that I am quite ashamed. I am
well fed and well content: the only thing is for you to get
strong again!

Come, good-bye, my angel; I kiss your Httle fingers.

And remain, always.

Your faithful friend,
Makae Dyevushkin.

P.S. — .Ah, my love, what do you mean by writing like that
again? . . . What nonsense you talk! Why, how can I come
and see you so often, my precious? I ask you how can I?
Perhaps snatching a chance after dark; but there, there's
scarcely any night at all now, at this season. As it was, my
angel, I scarcely left you at all while you were ill, while you
were unconscious; but really I don't know how I managed it
all; and afterwards I gave up going to you for people had
begun to be inquisitive cind to aS^ questions. There had been
gossip going about here, even apart from that. I rely upon
Teresa; she is not one to talk; but think for yourself, my
darling, what a to-do there wiU be when they find out every-
thing about us. They will imagine something and what will
they say then? So you must keep a brave heart, my darUng,
and wait until you. are quite strong again; and then we will
arrange a rendezvous somewhere out of doors,

147

JiMie I.

My dear Makar Alexyevitch,

I so long to do something nice that will please you in
return for all the care and trouble you have taken about me,
and all your love for me, that at last I have overcome my dis-
inclination to rummage in my chest and find my diary, which
I am sending to you now. I began it in the happy time of my
life. You used often to question me with curiosity about my
manner of life in the past, my mother, Pokrovskoe, my time
with Anna Fyodorovna and my troubles in the recent past, and
you were so impatiently anxious to read the manuscript in
which I took the fancy, God knows why, to record some
moments of my life that I have no doubt the parcel I am send-
ing will be a pleasure to you. It made me sad to read it
over. I feel that I am twice as old as when I wrote the last line
in that diaiy. It was all written at different dates. Good-bye,
Makar Alexyevitch! I feel horribly depressed now and often
I am troubled with sleeplessness. Convalescence is a very
dreary business! V. D.

I was only fourteen when my father died. My childhood was
the happiest time of my life. It began not here but far away
in a province in the wilds. My father was the steward of Prince

P.'s huge estate in the province of T . We lived in one of

the Prince's villages and led a quiet, obscure, happy life. . . .
I was a playful little thing; I used to do nothing but run about
the fields, the copses and the gardens, and no one troubled about
me. My father was constantly busy about his work, my mother
looked after the house; no one taught me anj^thing, for which
I was very glad. Sometimes at daybreak I would run away
either to llie pond or to the copse or to the hayfield or to the
reapers — and it did not matter that the sun was baking, that I
was running, I did not know where, away from the village,
that I was scratched by the bushes, that I tore my dress. . . .
I should be scolded afterwards at home, but I did not care for
that.

And it seems to me that I should have been so happy if it
had been my lot to have spent all my life in one place and never
to have left the country. But I had to leave my native place
while I was still a child. I was only twelve when we moved

148

to Petersburg. Ah, how well I remember our sorrowful pre-
parations! How I cried when I said good-bye to everj^hing
that was so dear to me. I remember that I threw myself on
father's neck and besought him with tears to remain a little
longer in the country. Father scolded me, mother wept; she
said that we had to go, that we could not help it. Old Prince

P was dead. His heirs had discharged father from his

post. Father had some money in the hands of private persons
in Petersburg. Hoping to improve his position he thought his
presence here in person essential. All this I learnt from mother.
We settled here on the Petersburg Side and Uved in the same
spot up to the time of father's death.

How hard it was for me to get used to our new Ufel We
moved to Petersburg in the autumn. When we left the country
it was a clear, warm, brilliant day; the work of the fields was
over; huge stacks of wheat were piled up on the threshing-floors
and flocks of birds were caUing about the fields; everything was
so bright and gay: here as we came into the town we foimd
rain, damp autumn chilliness, muggy greyness, sleet and a
crowd of new, unknown faces, unwelcoming, ill-humoured,
angry! We settled in somehow. I remember we were all in
such a fuss, so troubled and busy in arranging our new Hfe.
Father was never at home, mother had not a quiet minute — I
was forgotten altogether. J felt sad getting up in the morning
after the first night in our new abode — our windows looked out
on a yellow fence. The street was always covered with mud.
The passers-by were few and they were all muffled up, they
were all so cold. And for whole days together it was terribly
miserable and dreary at home. We had scarcely a relation or
intimate acquaintance. Father was not on friendly terms with
Anna Fyodorovna. (He was in her debt.) People came on
business to us pretty often. Usually they quarrelled, shouted
and made an uproar. After every visit father was ill-humoured
and cross; he would walk up and down the room by the hour
together, frowning and not saying a word to anyone. Mother
was silent then and did not dare to speak to him. I used to sit
in a comer over a book, still and quiet, not daring to stir.

Three months after we came to Petersburg I was sent to
twarding-school. How sad I was at first with strangers ! Every-
thing was so cold, so unfriendly ! The teachers had such loud
voices, the girls laughed at me so and I was such a wild
creature. It was so stem and exacting! The fixed hours for
everything, the meals in common, the tedious teachers — all that

149

at first fretted and harassed me. I could not even sleep there.
I used to cry the whole night, the long, dreary, cold night.
Sometimes when they were all repeating or learning l£eir
lessons in the evening I would sit over my French translation
or vocabularies, not daring to move and dreaming all the while
of our little home, of fa^er, of mother, of our old nurse, of
nurse's stories. . . . Oh, how I used to grieve! The most
trifling thing in the house I would recall with pleasure. I would
keep dreaming how nice it would be now at home ! I should be
sitting in our little room by the samovar with my own people;
it would be so warm, so nice, so-famiUar. How, I used to
think, I would hug mother now, how tightly, how warmly!
One would think and think and begin crying softly from
misery, choking back one's tears, and the vocabularies would
never get into one's head. I could not leam my lessons for next
day; all night I would dream of the teacher, the mistress, the
girls; all night I would be repeating my lessons in my sleep
and would not know them next day. They would make me
kneel down and give me only one dish for dinner. I was so
depressed and dejected. At first all the girls laughed at me and
teased me and tried to confuse me when I was sa37ing my
lessons, pinched me when in rows we walked into dinner or
tea, made complaints against me to the teacher for nejrt to
nothing. But how heavenly it was when nurse used to come
for me on Saturday evening. I used to hug the old darUng in a
frenzy of joy. She would put on my things, and wrap me up,
and could not keep pace with me, while I would chatter and
chatter and tell her everything. I would arrive home gay and
happy, would hug everyone as though I had been away for
ten years. There would be explanations, talks; descriptions
would begin. I would greet everyone, laugh, giggle, skip and
run about. Then there would be serious conversations with
father about our studies, our teachers, French, Lomond's
grammar, and we were all so pleased and happy. It makes
me happy even now to remember those minutes. I tried my
very utmost to leam and please father. I saw he was spending
his last fsLTthing on me and God knows what straits he was in.
Every day he grew more gloomy, more ill-humoured, more
angry. His character was quite changed, his business was
unsuccessful, he had a mass of debts. Mother was sometimes
afraid to cry, afraid to say a word for fear of making father
angry. She was getting quite ill, was getting thinner and
thinner and had begun to have a bad cough.

150

When I came back from school I used to find such sad faces,
mother weeping stealthily, father angry. Then there would be
scolding and upbraiding. Father would begin saying that I
was no joy, no comfort to them; that they were depriving
themselves of everything for my sake and I could not speak
French yet; in fact all his failures, all his misfortunes were
vented on me and mother. And how could he worry poor
mother! It was heartrending to look at her; her cheeks were
hollow, her eyes were sunken, there was a hectic flush in her
face.

I used to come in for more scolding than anyone. It always
began with trifles, and goodness knows what it went on to.
Often I did not understand what it was about. Everything was
a subject of complaint! . . . French and my being a great
dunce and that the mistress of our school was a careless, stupid
woman; that she paid no attention to our morals, that fattier
was still unable to find a job, that Lomond's was a very poor
grammar and that Zapolsky's was very much better, that a lot
of money had been thrown away on me, that I was an unfeel-
ing, stony-hearted girl — in fact, though I, poor thing, was
striving my utmost, repeating conversations and vocabularies,
I was to blame for everything, I was responsible for every-
thing! And this was not because father did not love me; he
was devoted to mother cind me, but it was just his character.

Anxieties, disappointments, failures worried my poor father
to distraction; he became suspicious, bitter; often he was close
upon despair, he began to neglect his health, caught cold and
aU at once fell ill. He did not suffer long, but died so sud-
denly, so unexpectedly that we were all beside ourselves with
the shock for some days. Mother seemed stunned; I actually
feared for her reason.

As soon as father was dead creditors seemed to spring up
from everywhere and rushed upon us like a torrent. Every-
thing we had we gave them. Our little house on Petersburg
Side, which father had bought six months after moving to
Petersburg, was sold too. I don't know how they settled the
rest, but we were left without refuge, without sustenance
Mother was suffering from a wasting disease, we could not earn
our bread, we had nothing to live on, ruin stared us in the face.
I was then only just fourteen. It was at this point that Anna
Fyodorovna visited us. She always said that she owned landed
estates and that she was some sort of relation of ours. Mother
said, too, that she was a relation, only a very distant one.

151

While father was alive she never came to see us. She made
her appearance now with tears in her eyes and said she felt
great sympathy for us; she condoled with us on our loss and
our poverty-stricken condition; added that it was father's own,
fault; that he had lived beyond his means, had borrowed right
and left and that he had been too self-confident. She expressed
a desire to be on more friendly terms with us, said we must let
by-gones be by-gones; when mother declared she had never
felt any hostility towards her, she shed tears, took mother to
church and ordered a requiem service for the "dear man".
(That was how she referred to father.) After that she was
solemnly reconciled to mother.

After leading up to the subject in many lengthy preambles,
Anna Fyodorovna first depicted in glaring colours our povCTty-
stricken and forlorn position, our helplessness and hopeless-
ness, and then invited us, as she expressed it, to take refuge
with her. Mother thanked her, but for a long time could not
make up her mind to accept; but seeing that there was nothing
else she could do and no help for it, she told Anna Fyodorovna
at last that we would accept her offer with gratitude.

I remember as though it were to-day the morning on which
we moved from the Petersburg Side to Vassilyevsky Ostrov.
It WcLs a clear, dry, frosty autumn morning. Mother was
crying. I felt horribly sad; my heart was torn and ached with
a terrible inexpUcable misery ... it was a terrible time. . . .

II

At first till we — that is mother and I — ^had grown used to
our new home we both felt strange and miserable at Anna
Fyodorovna' s. Anna Fyodorovna hved in a house of her own
in Sixth Row. There were only five hving-rooms in the house.
In three of them lived Anna Fyodorovna and my cousin Sasha,
a child who was being brought up by her, an orphan, fatherless
and motherless. Then we lived in one room, and in the last
room, next to ours, there was a poor student called Pokrovsky
who was lodging in the house.

Anna Fyodorovna lived very well, in a more wealthy style
than one could have expected; but her fortune was mysterious
and so were her pursuits. She was alwaj^ in a bustle, was
always full of business, she drove out and came back several
times a day; but what she was doing, what she was in a fuss

152

about and with what object she was busy I could never make
out. She had a large and varied circle of acquaintances.
Visitors were always calling upon her, and the queerest people,
always on business of some sort and to see her for a minute.
Mother always carried me ofi to my room as soon as the bell
rang. Anna Fyodorovna was horribly vexed with mother for
this and was continually repeating liiat we were too proud,
that we were proud beyond our means, that we had nothing
to be proud about, and she would go on like that for hours
together. I did not understand these reproaches at the time
and, in fact, it is only now that I have found out, or rather
that I guess why motlier could not make up her mind to live
with Anna Fyodorovna. Anna Fyodorovna was a spiteful
woman, she was continually tormenting us. To this day it is
a mystery to me why it was she invited us to Kve with her.
At first she was fairly nice to us, but afterwards she began
to show her real character as soon as she saw we were utterly
helpless and had nowhere else to go. Later on she became very
afiectionate to me, even rather coarsely affectionate and flatter-
ing, but at first I suffered in the same way as mother. Every
minute she was upbraiding us, she did nothing but talk of her
charitable deeds. She introduced us to outsiders as her poor
relations — a helpless widow and orphan to whom in the kind-
ness of her heart, out of Christian charity, she had given a
home. At meals she watched every morsel we took, while if
we did not eat, there would be a fuss again; she would say
we were fastidious, that we should not be over-nice, that we
should be thankful for what we had; that she doubted if we
had had an3^thing better in our own home. She was con-
tinually abusing father, saying that he wanted to be better
than other people and much good that had done him; that he
had left his wife and daughter penniless and that if they had
not had a benevolent relation, a Christian soul with a feeling
heart, then, God knows, they nnight have been rotting in the
street and d5mig of hunger. What did she not say! It was
not so much painful as disgusting to hear her.

Mother was continually crying; her health grew worse from
day to day. She was visibly wasting, yet she and I worked
from morning till night, taking in sewing, which Anna
Fyodorovna very much disliked, she was continually saying
that she was not going to have her house truned into a dress-
maker's shop. But we had to have clothes; we had to lay by
for unforeseen expenses; it was absolutely necessary to have

.153

money of our own. We saved on the ofE-chance, hoping we
might be able in time to move elsewhere. But motiier lost
what little health was left her over work; she grew weaker
every day. The disease sucked the life out of her like a worm
and hurried her to the grave. I saw it all, I felt it all, I realised
it all amd suffered; it all went on before my eyes

The days passed and each day was like the one before. We
lived as quietly as if we were not in a town. Anna Fyodorovna
calmed down by degrees as she began fully to recognise her
power. Though, indeed, no one ever thought of contradicting
her. We were separated from her rooms by the corridor, and
Pokrovsky's room was, as I have mentioned before, next to
ours. He used to teach Sasha French and German, histoiy,
geography — all the sciences, as Anna Fyodorovna said, and for
this he had his board and lodging from her. Sasha was a very
intelligent child, though playful and mischievous; she was
thirteen. Anna Fyodorovna observed to mother that it would
not be amiss if I were to have lessons, since my educaticm
had not been finished at the boarding-school, and for a whole
year I shared Sasha' s lessons with Pokrovsky. Pokrovsky was
poor, very poor. His health had prevented him from con-
tinuing his studies and it was only from habit that he was
called a student. He was so retiring, so quiet and so still that
we heard no sound of him from our room. He was very queer-
looking; he walked so awkwardly, bowed so awkwardly and
spoke so queerly that at first I could not look at him without
laughing. Sasha was continually mocking at him, especially
when he was giving us our lessons. He was of an irritable
temper, too, was constantly getting cross, was beside himself
about every trifle, scolded us, complained of us, and often
went off into his own room in anger without finishing the
lesson. He used to sit for da)^ together over his books. He
had a great many books, and such nire and expensive books.
He gave other lessons, too, for which he was paid, and as soon
as ever he had money he would go cind buy books.

In time I got to know him better and more intimately. He
was a very kind and good young man, the best person it has
been my lot to meet. Motiier had a great respect for him.
Afterwards he became the best of my friends — ^next to mother,
of course.

At first, though I was such a big girl, I was as mischievous
as Sasha. We used to rack our brains for hours together to find
ways to tease him and exhaust his patience. His anger was

154

extremely funny, sind we used to find it awfully amusing. (I
am ashamed even to think of it now.) Once we teased him
almost to the point of tears and I distinctly heard him whisper,
"Spiteful children." I was suddenly overcome with confusion;
I felt cishamed and miserable and sorry for him. I remember
that I blushed up to my ears and almost with tears in my eyes
begaja begging him not to mind and not to be offended at our
stupid mischief. But he closed the book and without finishing
the lesson went off to his own room. I was torn with penitence
all day long. The thought that we children had reduced him
to tears by our cruelty was insufferable. So we had waited for
his tears. So we had wanted them; so we had succeeded in
driving him out of all patience; so we had forced him, a poor
unfortunate man, to readise his hard lot.

I could not sleep all night for vexation, sorrow, repentance.
They say repentance relieves the soul — on the contrary. There
was an element of vanity mixed, I don't know how, with my
sadness. I did not want him to look upon me as a child, I
was fifteen then.

From that day I began worr57ing my imagination, creating
thousands of plans to make Pokrovsky change his opinion
about me. But I had become all of a sudden timid and shy;
in my real position I could venture upon nothing and confined
m57self to dreams (and God knows what dreams!). I left off
joining in Sasha's pranks; he left off being angry with us; but
for my vanity that was little comfort.

Now I will say a few words about the strangest, most curious
and most pathetic figure I have ever chanced to meet. I
speak of him now, at this passage in my diary, because until
that period I had hardly paid any attention to him. But now
eveijPthing that concerned Pokrovsky had suddenly become
interesting to me.

There used sometimes to come to the house a Httle old man,
grq^-headed, grubby, badly-dressed, clumsy, awkward, in-
credibly queer in fact. At the first glance at him one might
imagine that he was, as it were, abashed by something — as it
were, ashamed of himself. That is why he always seemed to
be shrinking into himself, to be, as it were, cowering; he had
such queer tricks and ways that one might almost have con-
cluded he was not in his right mind. He would come to the
house and stand at the glass door in the entry without daring
to come in. If one of us passed by — Sasha or I or any one of
the servants he knew to be rather kind to him — ^he would begin

155 "

waving at once, beckoning, making gesticulations, and only
when one nodded and called to him — a sign agreed upon that
there was no outsider in the house and that he might come
in when he hked — only then the old man stealthily opened the
door with a smile of glee, and rubbing his hands with satisfac-
tion, walked on tiptoe straight to Pokrovsky's room. This
was Pokrovsky's father.

Eater on, I learnt the whole story of this poor old man. He
had once been in the service, was entirely without ability, and
filled the very lowest and most insignificant post. When his
first wife (our Pokrovsky's mother) died he took it into his
head to marry a second time and married a girl of the working-
class. Everything was turned topsy-turvy imder the rule of
his new wife. She let no one five in peace, she domineered over
everyone. Our Pokrovsky was stUl a child, ten years old. His
stepmother hated him, but fate was kind to the boy. A country
gentleman called Bykov, who had known the elder Pokrovslqr
and at one time been his patron, took the child under his pro-
tection and sent him to school. He was interested in him
because he had known his mother, who had been a prot^g6e
of Anna Fyodorovna's and had by her been married to
Pokrovsky. Mr. Bykov, a very intimate friend of Anna
Fyodorovna's, had generously given the girl a dowry of five
thousand roubles on her marriage. Where that mon^ went to
I don't know.

That was the story Anna Fyodorovna told me; young
Pokrovsky never liked speaking of his family circumstances.
They say his mother was very pretty, and it seems strange to
me that she should have been so unfortunately married to such
an insignificant man. He was quite young when she died four
years cdter their marriage.

From boarding-school young Pokrovsky went on to a high
school and then to the university. Mr. Bykov, who very often
came to Petersburg, did not confine his protection to that.
Owing to the breakdown of his health Pokrovsky could not
continue his studies at the university. Mr. Bykov introduced
him to Anna Fyodorovna, commended him to her good of&ces
and so young Pokrovsky was taken into the house and was
given his board on condition of teaching Sasha everything that
was necessary. Old Pokrovsky was driven by grief at his
wife's cruelty to the worst of vices and was scarcely ever sober.
His wife used to beat him, make him hve in the kitchen, and
brought things at last to such a pass that he was

156

accustomed to being beaten and ill-treated and did not com-
plain of it. He was not a very old man, but his mind had
almost given way owing to his bad habits. The one sign he
showed of generous and humane feeling was his boundless love
for his son. It was said that young Pokrovsky was as like
his dead mother as one drop of water is hke another. Maybe
it was the memory of his first good wife that stirred in the
ruined old man's heart this infinite love for his son. The old
man could spesik of nothing but his son and always visited him
twice a week. He did not dare to come oftener, for young
Pokrovsky could not endure his father's visits. Of all his fail-
ings, undoubtedly the greatest and foremost was his disrespect
to his father. The old man certainly was at times the most
insufferable creature in the world. In the first place he was
horribly inquisitive, secondly, by remarks and questions of the
most trivial and senseless kind he interrupted his son's work
every minute, and, lastly, he would sometimes come under
the influence of drink. The son gradually trained the old man
to overcome his vices, his curiosity and incessant chatter, and
at last had brought things to sudi a point that the old man
obeyed him in everything hke an oracle and did not dare open
his mouth without permission.

The poor old man could not sufficiently admire and marvel
at his Petinka (as he called his son). When he came to see
him he almost always had a timid, careworn air, most likely
from uncertainty as to the reception his son would give him.
He was usually a long time making up his mind to come in,
and if I happened to be there he would spend twenty minutes
questioning me: "How was Petinka? Was he quite well?
What sort of mood was he in, and was he busy over anything
important? What was he doing? Was he writing, or absorbed
in reflection?" When I had sufficiently cheered and reassured
him, the old man at last ventured to come in, and very, very
quietiy, very, very cautiously opened the door, first poked in
his head, and if his son nodded to him and the old man saw he
was not angry, he moved stealthily into the room, took off
his overcoat and his hat, which was always crushed, full of
holes and with a broken brim, hung them on a hook, did every-
thing quietly, noiselessly; then cautiously sat down on a chair,
never taking his eyes off his son, watching every movement
and trying to guess what mood his "Petinka" was in. If his
son seemed ever so little out of humour and the old man
noticed it, he got up from his seat at once and explained, "I

1.57

just looked in, Petinka, only for a minute. I have been a long
walk, I was passing and came in for a rest." And then,
dumbly, submissively he would take his coat, his wretched hat,
again he would stealthily open the door and go away, keeping
a forced smile on his face to check the rush of disappointment
in his heart and to hide it from his son.

But when the son made the father welcome, the old man
was beside himself with joy. His face, his gestures, his move-
ments all betrayed his pleasure. If his son began talking to
him, the old man always rose a little from the chair and
answered softly, deferentially, almost with reverence, always
trying to use the choicest, that is, the most absurd expressions.
But he was not blessed with the gift of words; he was always
nervous and confused, so that he did not know what to do witii
his hands, what to do with himself, and kept whispering the
answer to himself long afterwards as though tr3dng to correct
himself. If he did succeed in giving a good answer, the old
man smoothed himself down, straightened his waistcoat, his
tie, his coat and assumed an air of dignity. Sometimes he
plucked up so much courage and grew so bold that he stealthily
got up from his chair, went up to the bookshelf, took down
some book and even began reading something on the spot,
whatever the book might be. All tibis he did with an air of
assumed unconcern and coolness, as though he could always
do what he liked with his son's books, as though his son's
graciousness was nothing out of the way.

But I once happened to see how frightened the poor fellow
was when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch the books. He
grew nervous and confused, put the book back upside down,
then tried to right it, turned it round and put it in with the
edges outside; smiled, flushed and did not know how to efface
his crime. Pokrovsky by his persuasions did succeed in turning
the old man a Uttle from his evil propensities, and whenever
the son saw his father sober three times running he would give
him twenty-five kopecks, fifty kopecks, or more at parting.
Sometimes he would buy his father a pair of boots, a tie or a
waistcoat; then the old man was as proud as a cock in his new
clothes.

Sometimes he used to come to us. He used to bring Sasha
and me gingerbread cocks and apples and always talked to us
of Petinka. He used to beg us to be attentive and obedient at
lessons, used to tell us that Petinka was a good son, an
exemplary son and, what was more, a learned son. Meanwhile

158

he would wink at us so funnily witli his left eye and make
such amusing grimaces that we could not help smiUng, and
went into peals of laughter at him. Mother was very fond of
him. But the old man hated Anna Fyodorovna, though he
was stiller than water, humbler than grass in her presence.

Soon I left off having lessons with Pokrovsky. As before, he
looked upon me as a child, a mischievous little girl on a level
with Sasha. This hurt me very much, for I was trying my
utmost to efface the impression of my behaviour in tiie past,
but I was not noticed. That irritated me more and more. I
scarcely ever spoke to Pokrovsky except at our lessons, and
indeed I could not speak. I blushed and was confused, and
afterwards shed tears of vexation in some comer.

I do not know how all this would have ended if a strange
circumstance had not helped to bring us together. One evening
when mother was sitting with Anna Fyodorovna I went
stealthily into Pokrovsky's room. I knew he was not at home,
and I really don't know what put it into my head to go into
his room. Until that moment I had never peeped into it,
though we had lived next door for over a year. This time my
heart throbbed violently, so violently that it seemed it would
leap out of my bosom. I looked around with peculiar curiosity.
Pokrovsky's room was very poorly furnished: it was untidy.
Papers were Ijnng on the table and the chairs. Books and
papers! A strange thought came to me, and at the same time
an unpleasant feehng of vexation took possession of me. It
seemed to me that my affection, my loving heart were little
to him. He was learned while I was stupid, and knew nothing,
had read nothing, not a single book ... at that point I
looked enviously at the long shelves which were almost break-
ing down under the weight of the books. I was overcome by
anger, misery, a sort of fury. I longed and at once determined
to read his books, every one of them, and as quickly as
possible. I don't know, perhaps I thought that when I learned
all he knew I should be more worthy of his friendship. I rushed
to the first shelf; without stopping to think I seized the first
dusty old volume; flushing and turning pale by turns,
trembling with excitement and dread, I carried off the stolen
book, resolved to read it at night— by the night-light while
mother was asleep.

But what was my vexation when, returning to our room,
I hurriedly opened tiie book and saw it was some old work in
Latin. It was half decayed and worm-eaten. I went back

159

without loss of time. Just as I was trying to put the book back
in the shelf I heard a noise in the passage and approaching
footsteps. I tried with nervous haste to be quick, but the
insufferable book had been so tightly wedged in the shelf that
when I took it out all the others had shifted and packed closer
of theniselves, so now there was no room for their former com-
panion. I had not the strength to force the book in. I pushed
the books with all my might, however. The rusty nail which
supported the shelf, and which seemed to be waiting for that
moment to break, broke. One end of the shelf fell down. The
books dropped noisily on the floor in all directions. The door
opened and Pokrovsky walked into the room.

I must observe that he could not bear anyone to meddle in
his domain. Woe to anyone who touched his Books! Imagine
my horror when the books, little and big, of all sizes and
shapes dashed off the shelf, flew dancing under the table, under
the chairs, all over the room 1 I would have run, but it was too
late. It is all over, I thought, it is all over. I am lost, I am
done fori I am naughty and mischievous like a child of ten,
I am a silly chit of a girl! I am a great fool!

Pokrovsky was dreadfully angry.

"Well, this is the last straw!" he shouted. "Are not you
ashamed to be so mischievous? . . . Will you ever learn
sense?" and he rushed to collect the books. "Don't, don't!"
he shouted. "You would do better not to come where you are
not invited."

A little softened, however, by my humble movement, he
went on more quietly, in his usual lecturing tone, speaking as
though he were still my teacher:

"Why, when will you learn to behave properly and begin
to be sensible? You should look at yourself. You are not
a little child. You are not a little girl. Why, you are fifteen!"

And at that point, probably to satisfy himself that I was not
a little girl, he glanced at me and blushed up to his ears. I
did not understand. I stood before him staring in amazement.
He got up, came towards me with an embarrassed air, was
horribly confused, said something, seemed to be apologising
for something, perhaps for having only just noticed that I was
such a big girl. At last I understood. I don't remember what
happened to me then; I was overcome with confusion, lost my
head, blushed even more crimson than Pokrovsky, hid my face
in my hands and ran out of the room.

I did not know what to do, where to hide myself for shame.

i6o

The mere fact that he had found me in his room was enough!
For three whole days I could not look at him: I blushed until
the tears came into my eyes. The most absurd ideas whirled
through my brain. One of them — ^the maddest — was a plan to
go to him, explain myself to him, confess everything to him,
tell him all openly and assure him I had not behaved hke a silly
little girl but had acted with good intentions. I quite resolved
to go but, thank God, my courage failed me. I can imagine
what a mess I should have made of it! Even now I am
ashamed to remember it aU.

A few days later mother suddenly became dangerously ill.
After two days in bed, on the third night, she was feverish and
delirious. I did not sleep all one night, looking after mother,
sitting by her bedside, bringing her drink and giving her
medicine at certain hours. The second night I was utterly
exhausted. At times I was overcome with sleep, my head weijt
round and everything was green before my eyes. I was ready
any minute to drop with fatigue, but mother's weak moans
roused me, I started up, waked for an instant and then was
overwhelmed with drowsiness again. I was in torment. I don't
know, I cannot remember, but some horrible dream, some
awful apparition haunted my over-wrought brain at the
agonising moment of struggling between sleeping and waking.
I woke up in terror. The room was dark; the night-light had
burned out. Streaks of light suddenly filled the whole room,
gleamed over the wall and disappeared. I was frightened, a
sort of panic came over me. My imagination had been upset
by a horrible dream, my heart was oppressed with misery.
... I leapt up from my chair and unconsciously shrieked
from an agonising, horribly oppressive feeling. At that moment
the door opened and Pokrovsky walked into our room.

All I remember is that I came to myself in his arms. He
carefully put me in a low chair, gave me a glass of water and
showered questions on me. I don't remember what I answered.

"You are ill, you are very ill yourself," he said, taking my
hand. "You are feverish, you will kill yourself. You do not
think of your health; calm yourself, lie down, go to sleep. I
will wake you in two hours time. Rest a little ... lie down,
lie down I " not letting me utter a word in objection. I was too
tired to object; my eyes were closing with weakness. I lay
down in a low chair, resolved to sleep only half an hour, and
slept till morning. Pokrovsky only waked me when the time
came to give mother her medicine.

i6i

The next evening when, after a brief rest in the daytime, I
made ready to sit up by mother's bedside again, firmly resolved
not to fall asleep this time, Pokrovsky at eleven o'clock
knocked at our door. I opened it.

''It is dull for you, sitting alone," he said to me. "Here is
a book; take it, it won't be so dull, anywiLy."

I took it; I don't remember what the book was like; I hardly
glanced into it, though I did not sleep all night. A strange
inward excitement would not let me sleep; I could not remain
sitting still; several times I got up from the chair and walked
about the room. A sort of inward content was suffused through
my whole being. I was so glad of Pokrovsky's attention. I
was proud of his anxiety and uneasiness about me. I spent the
whole night, musing and dreaming. Pokrovsky did not come
in again, and I knew he would not come, and I wondered
about the following evening.

The next evening, when everyone in the house had gone to
bed, Pokrovsky opened his door and began talking to me,
standing in the doorway of his room. I do not remember now
a single word of what we said to one another; I only
remember that I was shy, confused, vexed with mjrself and
looked forward impatiently to the end of the conversation,
though I had been desiring it intensely, dreaming of it all day,
and making up my questions and answers. . . . The fint
stage of our friendship began from that evening. All through
mother's illness we spent several hours together every night.
I got over my shyness by degrees, though after every conversa-
tion I found something in it to be vexed with m3rself about.
Yet with secret joy and proud satisfaction I saw that for my
sake he was beginning to forget his insufferable books.

By chance the conversation once tmned in jest on his books
having fallen off the shelf. It was a strange moment. I was,
as it were, too open and candid. I was carried away by excite-
ment and a strange enthusiasm, and I confessed everyihing to
him. . . . Confessed that I longed to study, to know some-
thing, that it vexed me to be considered a little girl. ... I
repeat that I was in a very strange mood; my heart was soft,
there were tears in my eyes — I concealed nothing and told him
everything — everything — ^my affection for him, my desire to
love him, to Uve with him, to comfort him, to console him.
He looked at me somewhat strangely, with hesitation and
perplexity, and did not say one word. I felt all at once
horribly sore and miserable. It seemed to me that he did not

162

understand me, that perhaps he was laughing at me. I
suddenly burst out crying like a child, I could not restrain my-
self, and sobbed as though I were in a sort of fit. He took
my hands, kissed them and pressed them to his heart; tedked
to me, comforted me; he was much touched. J do not
remember what he said to me, only I kept on crying and laugh-
ing and crjdng again, blushing, and so joyful that I could not
utter a word. In spite of my emotion, I noticed, however,
that Pokrovsky still showed traces of embarrassment and con-
straint. It seemed as though he were overwhelmed with
wonder at my enthusiasm, my delight, my sudden warm,
ardent affection. Perhaps it only seemed strange to him at
first; later on his hesitation vanished and he accepted my
devotion to him, my friendly words, my attentions, with the
same simple, direct feeling that I showed, and responded to
it aU with the same attentiveness, as affectionately and warmly
as a sincere friend, a true brother. My heart felt so warm, so
happy. ... I was not reserved, I concealed nothing from
him, he saw it all and grew every day more and more attached
to me.

And really I do not remember what we used to talk about
in those tormenting, and at the same time happy, hours when
we met at night by the flickering light of a Utile lamp, cind
almost by my poor mother's bedside. . . . We talked of
eveT3^tfaing that came into our minds, that broke from our
hearts, that craved expression, and we were almost happy.
. . . Oh, it Weis a sad and joyful time, both at once. . . .
And it makes me both sad and joyful now to think of him.
Memories are always tormenting, whether they are glad or
bitter; it is so with me, anyway; but even the torment is sweet.
And when the heart grows heavy, sick, wcciry and sad, then
memories refresh and revive it, as the drops of dew on a
moist evening after a hot day refresh and revive a poor sickly
flower, parched by the midday heat.

Motiier began to get better, but I still sat up by her bedside
at night. Pokrovsky used to give me books; at first I read them
to keep myself awake; then more attentively, and afterwards
with eagerness. They opened all at once before me much that
was new, unknown and imfamiliar. New thoughts, new im-
pressions rushed in a perfect flood into my heart. And the
more emotion, the more perplexity and effort it cost me to
assimilate those new impressions, the dearer they were to me
and the more sweetly tiiey thrilled my soul. They crowded

163 F*

upon my heart all at once, giving it no rest. A strange chaos
began to trouble my whole being. But that spiritual commo-
tion could not upset my balance altogether. I was too dreamy
and that saved me.

When mother's ilhiess was over, our long talks and evening
interviews were at an end; we succeeded sometimes in ex-
changing words, often trivial and of little consequence, but I
was fond of giving everything its significance, its peculiar
underlying value. My life Wcis full, I was happy, calmly,
quietly happy. So passed several weeks. . . .

One day old Pokrovsky came to see us. He talked to us
for a long time, was exceptionally gay, cheerful and com-
municative, he laughed, made jokes after his fashion, and at
last explained the mystery of his ecstatic condition, and told
us that that day wedc would be Petinka's birthday and that
for the occasion he should come and see his son; that he
should put on a new waistcoat and that his wife had promised
to buy him new boots. In fact, the old man was completely
happy and chatted away of everything in his mind. His birth-
day! That birthday gave me no rest day or night. I made
up my mind to give Pokrovsky something as a sign of my
afection. But what? At last I thought of giving hSn books.
I knew he wanted to have Pushkin's works in the latest, com-
plete edition, and I decided to buy Pushkin. I had thirty
roubles of my own money earned by needlework. The money
had been saved up to buy me a dress. I promptly sent old
Matrona, our cook, to find out what the whole of Pushkin
cost. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, including the
cost of binding, was at least sixty roubles. Where could I get
the money? I thought and thought and did not know what
to decide upon. I did not want to ask mother. Of course
mother would have certainly helped me; but then everyone in
the house would have known of our present; besides, the
present would have become a token of gratitude in repayment
for all that Pokrovsky had done for us during the past year.
I wanted to give it alone and no one else to Imow oi it. And
fOT what he had done for me I wanted to be indebted to him
fOT ever without any sort of repayment except my afEection.

At last I found a way out of my dif&culty.

I knew at the second-hand shops in the Gostiny Dvor one
could sometimes, with a httle bargaining, buy at half-price a
book hardly the worse for wear and almost completely new. I
resolved to visit the Gostiny Dvor. As it happened, next day

164

some things had to be bought for us and also for Anna
Fyodorovna. Mother was not very well, and Anna Fyodorovna,
very luckily, was lazy, so that it fell to me to make these
purchases and I set off with Matrona.

I was so fortunate as to find a Pushkin very quickly and one
in a very fine binding. I began bargaining. At first they
demanded a price higher than that in the bookseller's shops;
but in the end, though not without trouble, and walking away
several times, I brought the shopman to knocking down the
price and asking no more than ten roubles in silver. How I
enjoyed bargaining! . . . Poor Matrona could not make out
what was the matter with me and what possessed me to buy so
many books. But, oh, horror! My whole capital consisted of
thirty roubles in paper, sind the shopman would not consent to
let tiie books go cheaper. At last I began beseeching him,
begged and begged him and at last persuaded him. He gave
way but only took off two and a half roubles and swore he
only made that concession for my sake because I was such a
nice young lady and he would not have done it for anyone else.
I still had not enough by two and a half roubles. I was ready
to cry with vexation. But the most unexpected circumstance
came to my assistance in my distress.

Not far off at another bookstall I saw old Pokrovsky. Four
or five second-hand dealers were clustering about him; they
were bewildering him completely and he weis at his wits' end.
Each of them was proffering his wares and there was no end to
the books they offered and he longed to buy. The poor old
man stood in the midst of them, looking a disconsolate figure
and did not know what to choose from what was offered him.
I went up and asked him what he was doing here. The old man
was delighted to see me; he was extremely fond of me, hardly
less than of his Petinka, perhaps.

"Why, I'm buying books, Varvara Alexyevna," he
answered. "I am bu}dng books for Petinka. Here it will soon
be his birthday and he is fond of books, so, you see, I am
going to buy them for him. ..."

The old man always expressed himself in a very funny way
and now he was in the utmost confusion besides. Whatever he
asked the price of, it was always a silver rouble, or two or three
silver roubles; he had by now given up inquiring about the
bigger books and only looked covetously at them, turning over
the leaves, weighing them in his hands and putting them back
again in their places.

165

"No, no, that's dear," he would say in an undertone, "but
maybe there'll be something here."

And then he would begin turning over thin pamphlets, song-
books, almanacs; these were all very cheap.

"But why do you want to buy those?" I asked him. "They
are all awful rubbish."

"Oh, no," he answered. "No, you only look what good
little books there are here. They are very, very good little
books!"

And the last words he brought out in such a plaintive sing-
song that I fancied he was ready to cry with vexation at the
good books being so dear, and in another moment a tear would
drop from his pale cheeks on his red nose. I asked him whether
he had plenty of money.

"Why, here," the poor fellow pulled out at once all his
money wrapped up in a piece of greasy newspaper. "Here
there's half a rouble, a twenty-kopeck piece and twenty
kopecks in copper."

I carried him off at once to my second-hand bookseller.

"Here, these eleven volumes cost only thirty-two roubles
and a half; I have thirty; put your two and a half to it and we
will buy all these books and give them to him together."

The old man was beside himself with delight, he shook out
all his money, and the bookseller piled all our purchased
volumes upon him. The old man stuffed volumes in all his
pockets, carried them in both hands and under his arms and
bore them all off to his home, giving me his word to bring them
all to me in secret next day.

Next day the old man came to see his son, spent about an
hour with him as usual, then came in to us and sat down beside
me with a very comical mysterious air. Rubbing his hands in
proud deUght at being in possession of a secret, he began with
a smile by telling me that all the books had been conveyed
here unnoticed and were standing in a comer in the kitchen
under Matrona's protection. Then the conversation naturally
passed to the day we were looking forward to; the old man
talked at length of how we would give our present, and the
more absorbed he became in the subject the more apparent
it was to me that he had something in his heart of which he
could not, dared not, speak, which, in fact, he was afraid to
put into words. I waited and said nothing. The secret joy,
the secret satisfaction which I had readily discerned at first
in his strange gestures and grimaces and the winking of his

,i66

left eye, disappeared. Every moment he grew more uneasy
and disconsolate; at last he could not contain himself.

"Listen," he began timidly in an undertone.

"Listen, Varvara Alexyevna ... do you know what,
Varvara Alexyevna . . . ?" The old man was in terrible
confusion. "When the day of his birthday comes, you know,
you take ten books and give them yourself, that is from your-
self, on your own account; I'll take only the eleventh, and I,
too, will give it from myself, that is, apart, on my own account.
So then, do you see — ^you will have something to give, and
I shall have something to give; we shall both have something
to give."

At this paint the old man was overcome with confusion and
relapsed into silence. I glanced at him; he was waiting for my
verdict with timid expectation.

"But why do you want us not to give them together, Zahar
Petrovitch?"

"Why, you see, Varvara Alexyevna, it's just . . . it's
only, you know ..."

In short, the old man faltered, flushed, got stuck in his
sentence and could not proceed.

"You see," he explained at last, "Varvara Alexyevna, I
indulge at times . . . that is, I want to teU you that I am
almost always indulging, constantly indulging ... I have a
habit which is very bad . . . that is, you know, it's apt to be
so cold outdoors and at times there are unpleasantnesses of all
sorts, or something makes one sad, or something happens
amiss and then I give way at once and begin to indulge and
sometimes drink too much. Petrusha dislikes that very much.
He gets angry with me, do you see, Varvara Alexyevna, scolds
me and gives me lectures, so that I should have liked now to
show him by my present that I am reforming and beginning
to behave properly, that here I've saved up to buy the book,
saved up for ever so long, for I scarcely ever have any money
except it may happen Petrusha gives me something. He knows
that. So here he will see how I have used my money and wiU
know that I have done all that only for him.

I felt dreadfully sorry for the old man. I thought for a
moment. The old man looked at me uneasily.

"Listen, Zahar Petrovitch," I said; "you give him them
aU."

"How all? Do you mean all the books?"

"Why, yes, all the books."

167

''And from myself?"

"Yes, from yourself."

"From myself alone? Do you mean on my ovm account?'

"Why yes, on your own account."

I believe I made my meaning very clear, but it was a long
time before the old man could understand me.

"Why yes," he said, after pondering. "Yes! That would
be very nice, but how about you, Varvara Alexyevna?"

"Oh, well, I shall give nothing."

"What!" cried the old man, almost alarmed. "So you
don't want to give Petinka an5rthing?"

The old man was dismayed; at tiiat moment he was ready,
I believe, to give up his project in order that I might be able to
give his son something. He was a kind-hearted old fellow!
I assured him that I should have been glad to give something,
but did not want to deprive him of the pleasure.

"If your son is satisfied and you are glad," I added, "then
I shall be glad, for I shall feel secretly in my heart as though
I were really giving it myself."

With that the old man was completely satisfied. He spent
another two hours with us, but could not sit still in his place
and was continually getting up, fussing noisily about, plajdng
with Sasha, stealtiiily kissing me, pinching my hand and
making faces at Anna Fyodorovna on the sly. Anna
Fyodorovna turned him out of the house at last. The old man
was, in fact, in his delight, more excited than he had perhaps
ever been before.

On the festive day he appeared exactly at eleven o'clock,
coming straight from mass in a decently mended swallow-tail
coat and actually wearing a new waistcoat and new boots. He
had a bundle of books in each hand. We were all sitting drink-
ing cofEee in Anna Fyodorovna' s drawing-room at the time (it
was Sunday). The old man began by saying, I beUeve, that
Pushkin was a very fine poet; Iben, with much hesitation and
confusion, he passed suddenly to the necessity of one's
behaving oneself properly, and that if a man does not behave
properly then he will indulge; that bad habits are the ruin
and destruction of a man; he even enumerated several fatal
instances of intemperance, and wound up by saying that for
some time past he had been completely reformed and his
behaviour now was excellent and exemplary; that he had even,
in the past, felt the justice of his son's exhortations, that he
felt it all long ago and laid it to heart, but now he had begun

i68

to control himself in practice, too. In proof of which he
presented him with the books bought with money which he had
saved up during a long period of time.

I could not hdp laugWng and crying as I listened to the poor
old man; so he knew how to Ue on occasion 1 The books were
carried into Pokrovsky's room smd arranged on the shelves.
Pokrovsky at once guessed the truth. The old man was in-
vited to dinner. We were cdl so merry that day; after dinner we
played forfeits and cards; Sasha was in wild spirits and I was
hardly less so. Pokrovsky was attentive to me and kept seek-
ing an opportunity to speak to me alone, but I would not let
him. It was the happiest day of aU those four years of my life.

And now come sad, bitter memories, and I begin the story
of my gloomy days. That is why, perhaps, my pen moves
more slowly and seems to refuse to write more. That is why,
perhaps, I have dwelt in memory with such eagerness and such
love on the smallest details of my trivial existence in my happy
dajre. Those days were so brief; they were followed by grief,
black grief, and God only knows when it will end.

My troubles began witii the illness and death of Pokrovsky.

He fell ill about two months after the last incidents I have
described here. He spent those two months in unceasing efforts
to secure some means of subsistence, for he still had no settled
position. Like all consumptives he clung up to the very last
moment to the hope of a very long life. A post as a teacher
turned up for him, but he had a great distaste for that calling.
He could not take a place in a government office on account of
his health. Besides, he would have had to wait a long ticne for
the first instalment of his salary. In short, Pokrovsky met with
nothing but disappointment on all sides and this tried his
temper. His health was suffering, but he paid no attention to
it. Autumn was coming on, every day he went out in his thin
little overcoat to try and get work, to. beg and implore for a
place, which was inwardly an agony to him; he used to get
his feet wet and to be soaked through with the rain, and at last
he took to his bed and never got up from it again. ... He
died in the middle of autumn at the end of October.

I scarcely left his room during the whole time of his illness,
I nursed him and looked after him. Often I did not sleep for
nights together. He was frequently delirious and rarely quite
himself; he talked of goodness knows what, of his post, of his
books, of me, of his father . . . and it was then I heard a
great deal about his circumstances of which I had not known

169

or even guessed before. When first he was ill, all of them
looked at me somehow strangely; Aima Fyodorovna shook her
head. But I looked them all straight in lie face and they did
not blame me any more for my sympathy for Pokrovsky— at
least my mother did not.

Sometimes Pokrovsky knew me, but this was seldom. He
was cdmost all the time unconscious. Sometimes for whole
nights together he would cany on long, long conversations with
someone in obscure, indistinct words and his hoarse voice
resounded with a hollow echo in his narrow room as in a cof&n;
I used to feel terrified then. Especially on the last night he
seemed in a frenzy; he suffered terribly, was in anguish; his
moans wrung my heart. Everyone in the house was in alarm.
Anna Fyodorovna kept praying that God would take him more
quickly. They sent for the doctor. The doctor said that the
patient would certainly die by the morning.

Old Pokrovsky spent the whole night in the passage at the
door of his son's room; a rug of some sort was put down there
for him. He kept coining into the room, it was dreadful to look
at him. He was so crushed by sorrow that he seemed utterly
senseless and without feehng. His head was shaking with
terror. He was trembUng all over and kept whispering some-
thing, talking about something to himself. It seemed to me he
was going out of his mind.

Just before dawn the old man, worn out with mental sufier-
ing, fell asleep on his mat and slept like the dead. Between
seven and eight his son began to die. I waked the father.
Pokrovsky was fully conscious and said good-bye to us all.
Strange ! I could not cry, but my heart was torn to pieces.

But his last moments distressed and tortured me more than
all. He kept asking for something at great length with his
halting tongue and I could make out nothing from his words.
My heart was lacerated I For a whole hour he was uneasy,
kept grieving over something, trying to make some sign with
his chill hcinds and then beginning pitifully to entreat me in
his hoarse hoUow voice; but his words were discoimected sounds
and agEun I could meike nothing of them. I brought everyone
of the household to him, I gave him drink, but still he shook
his head mournfully. At last I guessed what he wanted. He
was begging me to draw up the window curtain and open the
shutters. No doubt he wanted to look for the last time at the
day, at God's Ught, at the sunshine. I drew back the curtain,
but the dawning day was sad and melancholy as the poor fail-

170

ing life of the dying man. There was no sun. The clouds
covered the sky with a shroud of mist; it was rainy, overcast,
mournful. A fine rain was pattering on the window-panes and
washing them with little rivulets of cold dirty water; it was
dark and dingy. The pale daylight scarcely penetrated into the
room and hardly rivalled the flickering flame of the little lamp
lighted before the ikon. The djnng man glanced at me mourn-
fully, mournfully and shook his head; a minute later he died.

Anna Fyodorovna herself made the arrangements for the
funeral. A coffin of the cheapest kind was bought and a carter
was hired. To defray these expenses Anna Fyodorovna seized
all Pokrovsky's books and other belongings. The old man
argued with her, made a noise, took away all the books he
could from her, stuffed his pockets full of them, put them in
his hat, wherever he could, went about with them all those
three days, and did not part with them even when he had to
go to church. During those three days he seemed as it were,
stupefied, as though he did not know what he was doing, and
he kept fussing about the coSin with a strange solicitude; at one
moment he set straight the wreath on his dead son and at the
next he lighted and took away candles. It was evident that
his thoughts could not rest on anything. Neither mother nor
Anna Fyodorovna was at the funeral service at the church.
Mother was ill; Anna Fyodorovna had got ready to go, but
she quarrelled with old Pokrovsky and stayed behind. I went
alone with the old man. During tiie service a terror came upon
me — as though a foreboding of the future. I could scarcely
stand up in church.

At last the cofl&n was closed, nailed up, put in the cart and
taken away. I foUowed it only to the end of the street. The
man drove at a trot. The old man ran after him, weeping
loudly, his lamentations quivering and broken by his haste.
The poor old man lost his hat and did not stop to pick it up.
His head was drenched by the rain and the wind was rising;
the sleet lashed and stung his face. The old man seemed not
to feel the cold and wet and ran wailing from one side of the
cart to the other, the skirts of his old coat fluttering in the
wind like wings. Books were sticking out from all his pockets;
in his hands was a huge volume which he held tightly. The
passers-by took off their caps and crossed themselves. Some
stopped and stood gazing in wonder at the poor old man. The
books kept falling out of his pockets into the mud. People
stopped him and pointed to what he had lost, he picked them

.171

up and fell to racing after the cof6n again. At the coma: of
the street an old beggar woman joined him to follow the cofiSn
with him. The cart turned the comer at last and disappeared
from my sight. I went home. I threw myself on mother's
bosom in terrible distress. I pressed her tightly in my arms,
I kissed her and burst into floods of tears, huddhng up to her
fearfully as though trying to keep in my arms my last friend
and not to give her up to death . . . but death was aheady
hovering over poor mother. . . .

June II.

How grateful I am to you for our walk yesterday to the
Island, Makar Alexyevitch! How fresh and lovely it is there,
how leafy and green! It's so long since I saw green leaves—
when I was ill I kept fancjring Aat I had to die emd that I
certainly should die — judge what must have been my sensa-
tions yesterday, how I must have felt . . .

You must not be angry with me for having been so sad
yesterday; I was very happy, very content, but in my very
best moments I am always for some reason sad. As for my
crying, that means nothing. I don't know myself why I am
always crying. I feel ill and irritable; my sensations are due
to illness. The pale cloudless sky, the sunset, the evoiing still-
ness — all that — I don't know — ^but I was somehow in the mood
yesterday to take a dreary and miserable view, of everything,
so that my heart was too full and needed the reUef of tears.
But why am I writing all this to you? It is hard to make
all that clear to one's own heart and still harder to convey
it to another. But you, perhaps, will understand me. Sadness
and laughter both at once! How kind you are really, Makar
Alexyevitch ! You looked into my eyes yesterday as though to
read in them what I was feeling and were delighted with my
rapture. Whether it was a bush, an avenue, a piece of water—
you were there standing before me showing its beauties and
peeping into my eyes as though you were displaying your
possessions to me. That proves that you have a kind heart,
Makar Alexyevitch. It's for that that I love you. Well, good-
bye. I'm ill again to-day; I got my feet wet yesterday and
have caught cold. Fedora is ailing, too, so now we are both
on the sick hst. Don't forget me. Come as often as you can.

Your V. D.

17a

JiMie 12.

My darling Varvara Alexyevna,

Well, I had expected, my dear soul, that you would write
me a description of our yesterday's expedition in a reguleir
poem, and you have turned out nothing but one simple ^eet.
I say this because, though you wrote me so little in your sheet,
yet you did describe it extraordinarily well and sweetly. The
charms of nature, and the various rural scenes and all the rest
about your feeling — ^in short, you described it all very well.
Now I have no talent for it. If I smudge a dozen papers there's
nothing to show for it; I can't describe anything. I have tried.

You write to me, my own, that I am a kind-hearted, good-
natured man, incapable of injuring my neighbour, and able to
understand the blessings of the Lord made manifest in nature,
and you bestow various praises on me, in fact. All that is true,
my darling, all that is perfectly true; I really am all that you
say and I know it myself; but when one reads what you write
one's heart is touched in spite of oneself and then all sorts of
painful reflections come to one. Well, listen to me, Varinka
dear, I will tell you something, my own.

I will begin with when I was only seventeen and went into
the service, and soon the thirtieth year of my career there will
be here. Well, I needn't say I have worn out many a uniform;
I grew to m^ihood and to good sense and saw something of
the world; I have lived, I may say, I have lived in the world
so that on one occasion they even wanted to send up my name
to receive a cross. Maybe you will not believe me, but I am
really not lying. But there, my darling, in spite of everything,
I have been badly treated by malicious people 1 I tell you, my
own, that though I am an obscure person, a stupid person,
perhaps, yet I have my feelings like anyone else. Do you know,
Varinka, what a spiteful man did to me? I am ashamed to
say what he hcis done to me; you will ask why did he do
it? Why, because I am meek, because I am quiet, because
I am good-natured! I did not suit their taste, so that's
what brought it upon me. At first it began with, "You
are this and that, Makar Alexyevitch," and then it came
to saying, "It's no good asking Makar Alexyevitch!" And
then it ended by, "Of course, that is Makar Alexyevitch!"
You see, my precious, what a pass it came to; always Makar
Alexyevitch to blame for everything; they managed to
make Makar Alexyevitch a by-word all over the department,
and it was not enough that they made me a by-word and

173

almost a term of abuse, they attacked my boots, my uniform,
my hair, my figure; nothing was to their taste, everytiiing ought
to be different! And all this has been repeated every blessed
day from time immemorial. I am used to it, for I grow used
to anything, because I am a meek man; but what is it all for?
What harm do I do to anyone? Have I stolen promotion from
anyone, or what? Have I blackened anyone's reputation with
his superiors? Have I asked for anything extra out of turn?
Have I got up some intrigue? Why, it's a sin for you to
imagine such a thing, my dear soul! As though I could do
anything of that sort! You've only to look at me, my own.
Have I sufficient ability for intrigue and ambition? Then why
have such misfortunes come upon me? God forgive me. Here
you consider me a decent man, and you are ever so much
better than any of them, my darling. Why, what is the
greatest virtue in a citizen? A day or two ago, in private
conversation, Yevstafy Ivanovitch said that the most important
virtue in a citizen was to earn money. He said in jest (I know
it was in jest) that morality consists in not being a burden to
anyone. Well, I'm not a burden to anyone. My crust of
bread is my own; it is true it is a plain crust of bread,
at times a dry one; but there it is, earned by my toil and
put to lawful and irreproachable use. Why, what can one
do? I know very well, of course, that I don't do much by
copying; but all tiie same I am proud of working and earning
my bread in the sweat of my brow. Why, what if I am a copy-
ing clerk, after all? What harm is there in copying, after all?
"He's a copying clerk," they say, but what is there discredit-
able in that? My handwriting is good, distinct and pleasant
to the eye, and his Excellency is satisfied with it. I have no
gift of language, of course, I know myself that I haven't the
confounded thing; that's why I have not got on in the service,
and why even now, my own, I am writing to you simply, art-
lessly, just as the thought comes into my heart. ... I know
all liat; but there, if everyone became an author, who would
do the copying? I ask you that question and I beg you to
answer it, Varinka dear. So I see now that I am necessary,
that I am indispensable, and that it's no use to worry a man
with nonsense. Well, let me be a rat if you like, since they
see a resemblance ! But the rat is necessary, but the lat is
of service, but the rat is depended upon, but the rat is given
a reward, so that's the sort of rat he is!
Enough about that subject though, my own! I did not

174

intend to talk about that at all, but I got a little heated. Besides,
it's pleasant from time to time to do oneself justice. Good-bye,
my own, my darling, my kind comforter! I will come, I will
certainly come to see you, my dearie, and meanwhile, don't be
dull, I will bring you a book. Well, good-bye, then, Varinka.

Your devoted well-wisher,

Makar Dyevushkin.

June 20.
Dear Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

I write a hurried line, I am in haste, I have to finish my
work up to time. You see, this is how it is: you can make a
good bargain. Fedora says that a friend of hers has a uniform,
quite new, underclothes, a waistcoat and cap, and all very
cheap, they say; so you ought to buy them. You see, you are
not badly oS now, you say you have money; you say so your-
self. Give over being so stingy, please. You know all those
things are necessary. Just look at yourself, what old clothes
you go about in. It's a disgrace ! You're all in patches. You
have no new clothes; I know that, though you declare that
you have. God knows how you have managed to dispose of
them. So do as I tell you, please buy these things. Do it for
my sake; if you love me, do it.

You sent me some linen as a present; but upon my word,
Makar Alexyevitch, you are ruining yourself. It's no joke
what you've spent on me, it's awful to think how much money !
How fond you are of throwing away your money ! I don't want
it; it's aU absolutely unnecessary. I know — I am convinced —
that you love me. It is really unnecessary to remind me of it
with presents; and it worries me taking them from you; I know
what they cost you. Once for all, leave off, do you hear? I
beg you, I beseech you. You ask me, Makar Alexyevitch, to
send you the continuation of my diary, you want me to finish
it. I don't know how what I have written came to be written !
But I haven't the strength now to talk of my past; I don't even
want to think of it; I feel frightened of those memories. To
talk of my poor mother leaving her poor child to those
monsters, too, is more painful than anything. My heart throbs
at the very thought of it: it is all still so fresh : I have not had
time to think things over, stiU less to regain my calm, though
it is aU more than a year ago, now. But you know all that.

I've told you what Anna Fyodorovna thinks now; she blames
me for ingratitude and repucfiates all blame for her association

175

with Mr. Bykovl She invites me to stay with her; she says
that I am hving on charity, that I am going to the bad. She
says that if I go back to her she will undertake to set right
everything with Mr. Bykov and compel him to make up for his
behaviour to me. She says Mr. Bykov wants to give me a
dowry. Bother them! I am happy here with you close by,
with my kind Fedora whose devotion reminds me of my old
nurse. Though you are only a distant relation you will pro-
tect me with your name. I don't know them. I shall forget
them if I can. What more do they want of me? Fedora says
that it is all talk, that they will leave me alone at last. God
grant they may!

V. D.

June 21.
My darling Varinka,

I want to write, but I don't know how to begin. How
strange it is, my precious, how we are living now. I say this
because I have never spent my days in such ]'o3^1ness. Why,
it is as though God had blessed me with a home and family of
my own, my child, my pretty ! But why are you making such a
fuss about the four chemises I sent you? You needed them,
you know — I found that out from Fedora. And it's a special
happiness for me to satisfy your needs, Varinka, dear; it's my
pleasure. You let me alone, my dear soul. Don't interfere
with me and don't contradict me. I've never known anything
like it, my darling. I've taken to going into society now. In
the first place my life is twice as full; because you are living
very near me and are a great comfort to me; and secondly,
I have been invited to tea to-day by a lodger, a neighbour of
mine, that clerk, Ratazyaev, who has the Uteraiy evenings.
We meet this evening, we are going to read Uterature. So you
see how we are getting on now, Varinka — you see! Well,
good-bye. I've written all this for no apparent reason, simply
to let you know of the affection I feel for you. You told Teresa
to tell me, my love, that you want some silk for coloured
embroidery. I will get you it, my darling, I will get the silk,
I will get it. To-morrow I shall have the pleasure of satisfying
you. I know where to buy it, too. And now I remain.

Your sincere friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

176

Jime 22.
Dear Madam, Varvara Alexyevna,

I must tell you, my own, that a very pitiful thing has
happened in our flat, truly, truly, deserving of pity I Between
four and five this morning Gorshkov's little boy died. I don't
know what he died of. It seemed to be a sort of scarlatina,
God only knows! I went to see these Gorshkovs. Oh, my
dear sOul, how poor they are! And what disorder! And no
wonder; the whole family lives in one room, only divided by a
screen for decency. There was a little cof&n standing in the
room already — a simple Uttle coffin, but rather pretty; they
bought it ready-made; the boy was nine years old, he was a
promising boy, they say. But it was pitiful to look at them,
Varinka ! The mother did not cry, but she was so sad, so poor.
And perhaps it will make it easier for them to have got one off
their shoulders; but there are still two left, a baby, and a little
girl, not much more than six. There's not much comfort really
in seeing a child suffer, especially one's own little child, and
having no means of helping himl The father was sitting in a
greasy old dress suit on a broken chair. The tears were flow-
ing from his eyes, but perhaps not from grief, but just the
usual thing — ^his eyes are inflamed. He's such a strange fellow !
He always turns red when you speak to him, gets confused
and does not know what to answer. The little girl, their
daughter, stood leaning against the coffin, such a poor little,
sad, brooding child I And Varinka, my darling, I don't Uke it
when children brood; it's painful to see ! A doll made of rags
was lying on the floor beside her; she did not play with it,
she held her finger on her lips; she stood, without stirring. The
landlady gave her a sweetmeat; she took it but did not eat it.
It was sad, Varinka, wasn't it?

Makar Dyevushkin.

Jutie 25.
Dear Makar Alexyevitch,

I am sending you back your book. A wretched, worth-
less little book not fit to touch ! Where did you ferret out such
a treasure? Joking apart, can you really like such a book,
Makar Alexyevitch? I was promised the other day something
to read. I will share it with you, if you like. And now good-
bye. I reedlv have not time to write more.

V. D.

177

Jwm 25.
Dear Varinka,

The fact is that I really had not read that horrid book,
my dear girl. It is true, I looked through it and saw it was
nonsense, just written to be funny, to make people laugh; well,
I thought, it really is amusing; maybe Varinka will lie it, so
I sent it you.

Now, Ratazyaev has promised to give me some real
literature to read, so you will have some books, my darling.
Ratazyaev knows, he's a connoisseur; he writes himself, ough,
how he writes! His pen is so bold and he has a wonderful
style, that is, there is no end to what there is in every word-
in the most foolish ordinary vulgar word such as I might say
sometimes to Faldoni or Teresa, even in such he has style.
I go to his evenings. We smoke and he reads to us, he reads
five hours at a stretch and we Usten all the time. It's a perfect
feast. Such charm, such flowers, simply flowers, you can
gather a bouquet from each page 1 He is so affable, so kindly
and friendly. Why, what am I beside him? What am I?
Nothing. He is a man with a reputation, and what am I? I
simply don't exist, yet he is cordial even to me. I am copying
something for him. Only don't you imagine, Varinka, that liiere
is something amiss in that, that he is friendly to me just because
I cim copying for him; don't you believe tittle-tattle, my dear
girl, don't you believe worthless tittle-tattle. No, I am doing
it of myself, of my own accord for his pleasure. I understand
refinement of manners, my love; he is a kind, very kind man,
and an incomparable writer.

Literature is a fine thing, Varinka, a very fine thing. I leamt
that from them the day before yesterday. A profound thing,
strengthening men's hearts, instructing them; there are sJl
sorts of things written about that in their book. Very well
written ! Literature is a picture, that is, in a certain sense, a
picture and a mirror: it's the passions, the expression, the
subtlest criticism, edifying instruction and a document. I
gathered all that from them. I tell you frankly, my darling,
that one sits with them, one Ustens (one smokes a pipe like
them, too, if you please), and when they begin to discuss and
dispute about all sorts of matters, then I simply sit dumb; then,
my dear soul, you and I can do nothing else but sit dumb. I am
simply a blockhead, it seems. I am ashamed of myself, so that
I try all the evening how to put in half a word in the general
conversation, but there, as ill-luck would have it, I can't find

178

that half word! And one is sony for oneself, Varinka, that
one is not this thing, nor that thing, that, as the sajdng is, "A
man one is grown, but no mind of one's own." Why, what
do I do in my free time now? I sleep like a fool! While
instead of useless sleep I might have been busy in useful
occupation; I might have sat down and written something that
would have been of use to oneself and pleasant to others. Why,
my dearie, you should only see what they get for it, God
forgive them! Take Ratazyaev, for instance, what he gets.
What is it for him to write a chapter? Why, sometimes he
writes five in a day and he gets three hundred roubles a chapter.
Some little anecdote, something curious — ^five hundred 1 take it
or leave it, give it or be damned ! Or another time, we'll put a
thousand in our pocket! What do you say to that, Varvara
Alexyevna? Why, he's got a Uttle book of poems — such short
poems — ^he's asking seven thousand, my dear girl, he's asking
seven thousand; think of it! Why, it's real estate, it's house
property! He says that they wUl give him five thousand, but
he won't take it. I reasoned with him. I said, "Take five
thousand for them, sir, and don't mind them. Why, five
thousand's money!" "No,' said he, "they'll give me seven,
the swindlers!" He's a cunning fellow, really.

Well, my love, since we are talking of it I will copy a
passage from the IMicm Passions for you. That's the name of
his book. Here, read it, Varinka, and judge for yourself. . . .

"Vladimir shuddered and his passion gurgled up furiously
within him and his blood boiled. . . .

" 'Countess,' he cried. 'Countess! Do you know how awful
is this passion, how boundless this madness? No, my dreams
did not deceive me! I love, I love ecstatically, furiously,
madly! All your husband's blood would not quench the
frantic surging ecstasy of my soul! A trivial obstacle cannot
check the aU-destroying, hellish fire that harrows my exhausted
breast. Oh, Zinaida, Zinaida!' . . .

" 'Vladimir,' whispered the countess, beside herself, leaning
on his shoulder. . . .

" 'Zinaida!' cried the enraptured Smyelsky.

"His bosom exhaled a sigh. The fire flamed brightly on the
altar of love and consumed the heart of the unhappy victims.

" 'Vladimir,' the countess whispered, intoxicated. Her bosom
heaved, her cheeks glowed crimson, her eyes glowed. , . .

"A new, terrible union was accomplished!

179

"Half an hour later the old count went into his wife's
boudoir.

" 'Well, my love, should we not order the samovar for oui
welcome guest?' he said, patting his wife on the cheek."

Well, I ask you, my dear soul, what do you think of it after
that? It's true, it's a little free, there's no disputing that, but
Still it is fine. What is fine is fine I And now, if you will allow
me, I will copy you another Uttle bit from the novel Yermak
and Zuteika.

You must imagine, my precious, that the Cossack, Yermak,
the fierce and savage conqueror of Siberia, is in love with the
daughter of Kutchum, the Tsar of Siberia, the Princess Zuleika,
who has been taken captive by him. An episode straight from
the times of Ivan the Terrible, as you see. Here is the conversa-
tion of Yermak and Zuleika.

" 'You love me, Zuleika! Oh, repeat it, repeat itl' . . .

" 'I love you, Yermak,' whispered Zuleika.

" 'Heaven and earth, I thank you! I am happy! . . .
You have given me everything, everything, for which my
turbulent soul has striven from my boyhood's years. So it was
to this thou hast led me, my guiding star, so it was for this thou
hast led me here, beyond tiie Belt of Stone ! I will show to all
the world my Zuleika, and men, the frantic monsters, will
not dare to blame me ! Ah, if they could understand the secret
sufferings of her tender soul, if they could see a whole poem
in a tear of my Zuleika! Oh, let me dry that tear with
kisses, let me drink it up, that heavenly tear . . . unearthly
one!'

" 'Yermak,' said Zuleika, 'the world is wicked, men are
unjust! They will persecute us, they will condemn us, my
sweet Yermak ! What is the poor maiden, nurtured amid the
snows of Siberia in her father's ywta. to do in your cold, icy,
soulless, selfish world? People will not understand me, my
desired one, my beloved one.'

" 'Then wiU the Cossack's sabre rise up hissing about
them.' "

And now, what do you say to Yermak, Varinka, when he
finds out that his Zuleika has been murdered? . . . The blind
old man, Kutchum, imder cover of night steals into Yermak's
tent in his absence and slays Zuleika, intending to deal a mortal
blow at Yermak, who has robbed him of his sceptre and his
crown.

" 'Sweet is it to me to rasp the iron against the stone,'

i8o

shouted Yermak in wild frenzy, whetting his knife of Dameiscus
steel upon the magic stone; 'I'll have their blood, their blood!
I will hack them! hack them! hack them to pieces! 1 !' "

And, after all that, Yermak, unable to survive his Zuleika,
throws himself into the Irtish, and so it all ends.

And this, for instance, a tiny fragment written in a jocose
style, simply to make one laugh.

"Do you know Ivan Prokofyevitch Yellow-paunch? Why,
the man who bit Prokofy Ivanovitch's leg. Ivan Prokofyevitch
is a man of hasty temper, but, on the other hand, of rare
virtues; Prokofy Ivanovitch, on the other hand, is extremely
fond of a rarebit on toast. Why, when Pelagea Antonovna used
to know him ... Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? the
woman who always wears her petticoat inside out."

That's humour, you know, Varinka, simply humour. He
rocked with laughter when he read us that. He »s a fellow,
God forgive him! But though it's rather jocose and very
playful, Varinka dear, it is quite innocent, witihout the slightest
trace of free-thinking or liberal ideas. I must observe, my love,
that Ratazyaev is a very well-behaved man and so an excellent
author, not like other authors.

And, after all, an idea sometimes comes into one's head, you
know. . . . What if I were to write something, what would
happen then? Suppose that, for instance, apropos of nothing,
there came into the world a book with the title — Poems by
Makar Dyevushkin? What would my little angel say then?
How does that strike you? What do you think of it? And I
can tell you, my darling, that as soon as my book came out,
I certainly should not dare to show myself in the Nevsky
Prospect. Why, how should I feel when everyone would be
saying, Here comes the author and poet, Dyevushkin? There's
Dyevushkin himself, they would say! What should I do with
my boots then? They are, I may mention in passing, my dear
girl, almost always covered with patches, and the soles too,
to tell the truth, sometimes break away in a very unseemly
fashion. What should we do when everyone knew that the
author Dyevushkin had patches on his boots! Some countess
or duchess would hear of it, and what would she say, the
darling? Perhaps she would not notice it; for I imagine
countesses don't trouble themselves about boots, especially
clerks' boots (for you know there are boots and boots), but
they would teU her all about it, her friends would give me
away. Ratazyaev, for instance, would be the first to give me

i8i

away; he visits the Countess V.; he says that he goes to all
her receptions, and he's quite at home there. He says she is
such a darling, such a literary lady, he says. He's a rogue, that
Ratazyaev I

But enough of that subject; I write all this for fun, my little
angel, to amuse you. Good-bye, my darling, I have scribbled
you a lot of nonsense, but that is just because I am in a very
good humour to-day. We all dined together to-day at
Ratazyaev's (they are rogues, Vsmnka dear), and brought out
such a cordicd. . . .

But there, why write to you about that! Only mind you
don't imagine anything about me, Varinka. I don't mean any-
thing by it. I will send you the books, I will certainly send
them. . . . One of Paul de Kock's novels is being passed
round from one to another, but Paul de Kock will not do for
you, my precious. . . . No, no ! Paul de Kock won't do for
you. They say of him, Varinka dear, that he rouses all the
Petersburg critics to righteous indignation. I send you a pound
of sweetmeats — I bought them on purpose for you. Do you
hear, darling? think of me at every sweetmeat. Only don't
nibble up the sugar-candy but only suck it, or you will get

toothache. And perhaps you like candied peel? ^wiite and

tell me. Well, good-bye, good-bye. Christ be with you, my
darling I

I remain ever.

Your most faithful friend,

Makar Dyevushkdi.

June 27.
Dear Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

Fedora tells me that, if I Uke, certain people will be pleased
to interest themselves in my position, and will get me a very
good position as a governess in a family. What do you think
about it, my friend — ^shall I go, or shall I not? Of course I
should not then be a burden upon you, and the situation seems
a good one; but, on the other hand, I feel somehow frightened
at going into a strange house. They are people with an estate
in the country. When they want to know all about me, when
they begin asking questions, making inquiries — why, what
should I say then? — besides, I am so shy and unsociable, I like
to go on Uving in the comer I am used to. It's better somehow
where one is used to being; even though one spends half one's

i8a

time grieving, still it is better. Besides, it means leaving Peters-
burg; and God knows what my duties will be, either; perhaps
they will simply make me look after the children, like a nurse.
And they are such queer people, too; they've had three
governesses already in two years. Do advise me, Makar
Alexyevitch, whether to go or not. And why do you never
come and see me? You hardly ever show your face, we scarcely
ever meet except on Sundays at mass. What an unsociable
person you are! You are as bad as I am! And you know I
am almost a relation. You don't love me, Makar Alexyevitch,
and I am sometimes very sad all alone. Sometimes, especially
when it is getting dark, one sits all alone. Fedora goes off
somewhere, one sits and sits and thinks — one remembers all
the past, joyful and sad alike — it all passes before one's eyes, it
all rises up as though out of a mist. Familiar faces appear (I
am almost begiiming to see them in reality) — I see mother
most often of all . . . And what dreams I have! I feel that
I am not at all well, I am so weak; to-day, for instance, when
I got out of bed this morning, I turned giddy; and I have
such a horrid cough, too! I feel, I know, that I shall soon
die. Who will bury me? Who will follow my cofBn! Who
will grieve for me ! . . . And perhaps I may have to die in a
strange place, in a strange house! . . . My goodness! how
sad life is, Makar Alexyevitch. Why do you keep feeding me
on sweetmeats? I really don't know where you get so much
money from? Ah, my friend, take care of your money, for
God's sake, take care of it. Fedora is selling the cloth rug I
have embroidered; she is gettiag fifty paper roubles for it.
That's very good, I thought it would be less. I shall give
Fedora three silver roubles, and shall get a new dress for my-
self, a plain one but warm. I shall make you a waistcoat, I
shall make it myself, cind I shall choose a good material.

Fedora got me a book, Byelkm's Stones, which I will send
you, if you care to read it. Only don't please keep it, or make
it dirty, it belongs to someone else — it's one of Pushkin's works.
Two years ago I read these stories with my mother. And it was
so sad for me now to read them over again. If you have any
books send them to me — only not if you get them from
Ratazyaev. He will certainly lend you his books if he has ever
published anjHihing. How do you like his works, Makar
Alexyevitch? Such nonsense . . . Well, good-bye! How I
have been chattering! When I am sad I am glad to chatter
abojit anything. It does- me good; at once one feels better,

183

especially if one expresses all that lies in one's heart. Good-
bye. Good-bye, my friend!

Your

V.D.

June 28.
My precious Varvara Alexyevna,

Leave off worr5dng yourself, I wonder you are not
asheimed. Come, give over, my angel I How is it such thoughts
come into your mind? You are not ill, my love, you are not
ill at all; you are blooming, you are really blooming; a little
pale, but still blooming. And what do you mean by these
dreams, these visions? For shame, my darUng, give over; you
must simply laugh at them. Why do I sleep well? Why is
nothing wrong with me? You should look at me, my dear soul.
I get along all right, I sleep quietly, I am as healthy and hearty
as can be, a treat to look at. Give over, give over, darling,
for shame. You must reform. I know your Uttle ways, my
dearie; as soon as any trouble comes, you begin fancying things
and worrying about something. For my sake give over, my
darling. Go into a family? — ^Never! No, no, no, and what
notion is this of yours? What is this idea that has come over
you? And to leave Petersburg too. No, my darling, I won't
allow it. I will use every means in my power to oppose such
a plan. I'll sell my old coat and walk about the street in my
shirt before you shall want for anything. No, Varinka, no,
I know you 1 It's foUy, pure folly. And there is no doubt that
it is all Fedora's fault: she's evidently a stupid woman, she
puts all these ideas into your head. Don't you trust her, my
dear girl. You probably don't know everj^thing yet, my love.
. . . She's a silly woman, discontented and nonsensical; she
worried her husband out of his life. Or perhaps she has vexed
you in some way? No, no, my precious, not for an3rthingl
And what would become of me then, what would there be left
for me to do? No, Varinka darling, you put that out of your
little head. What is there wanting in your life with us? We
can never rejoice enough over you, you love us, so do go on
hving here quietly. Sew or read, or don't sew if you like— it
does not matter — only go on hving with us or, only think your-
self, why, what would it be like without you? . . .

Here, I will get you some books and then maybe we'll go for
a walk somewhere again. Only you must give over, my dearie,
you must give over. Pull yourself together and don't be foolish

184

over trifles! I'll come and see you and very soon too. Only
accept what I tell you plainly and candidly about it; you are
wrong, my darling, very wrong. Of course, I am an ignorant
man and I know m5rself that I am ignorant, that I have hardly
a ha'porth of education. But that's not what I am talking
about, and I'm not what matters, but I will stand up for
Ratazyaev, say what you like. He writes well, very, very well,
and I say it again, he writes very well. I don't agree with
you and I never can agree with you. It's written in a flowery
abrupt style, with figures of speech. There are ideas of all sorts
in it, it is very good! Perhaps you read it without feeling,
Varinka; you were out of humour when you read it, vexed
with Fedora, or something had gone wrong. No, you read it
with feeling; best when you are pleased and happy and in a
pleasant humour, when, for instance, you have got a sweetmeat
in your mouth, that's when you must read it. I don't dispute
(who denies it?) that there are better writers than Ratazyaev,
and very mucii better in fact, but they are good and
Ratazyaev is good too. He writes in his own special way, and
does very well to write. Well, good-bye, my precious, I can't
write more; I must make haste, I have work to do. Mind now,
my love, my precious Httle dearie; calm yourself, and God
will be with you, and I remain your faithful friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

P.S. — ^Thanks for the book, my own; we will read Pushkin
too, and this evening I shall be sure to come and see you.i

My DEAR Makar Alexyevitch,

No, my friend, no, I ought not to go on living among you.
On second thoughts I consider that I am doing very wrong to
refuse such a good situation. I shall have at least my daily
bread secure; I will do my best, I will win the affection of the
strangers, I will even try to overcome my defects, if necessary.
Of course it is painful and irksome to live with strangers, to try
and win their good-will, to hide one's feelings, and suppress
oneself, but God wiU help me. I mustn't be a recluse all my
life. I have had experiences like it before. I remember when
I was a little thing and used to go to school. I used to be
frolicking and skipping about all Sundays at home; sometimes
mother would scold me — ^but nothing mattered, my heart was
light and my soul was full of joy all the while. As evening
approached an immense sadness would come over me — at nine

185

o'clock I had to go back to school, and there it was all cold,
strange, severe, the teachers were so cross on Mondays, one
had such a pain at one's heart, one wanted to cry; one would
go into a comer and cry all alone, hiding one's tears — ^they
would say one was lazy; and I wasn't crying in the least
because I had to do my lessons.

But, after all, I got used to it, and when I had to leave school
I cried also when I said good-bye to my schoolfellows. And I
am not doing right to go on being a burdai to both of you.
That thought is a torment to me. I tell you all this openly
because I am accustomed to be open with you. Do you
suppose I don't see how early Fedora gets up in the morning,
and sets to work at her washing and works till late at night?—
and old bones want rest. Do you suppose I don't see how you
are ruining yourself over me, and spending every halfpenny?
You are not a man of property, my friend! You tell me that
you will sell your last rag before I shall want for anything.
I believe you, my friend, I trust your kind heart, but you say
that now. Now you have money you did not expect, you've
received something extra, but later on? You know yourself, I
am always ill; and I can't work like you, though I should be
heartily glad to, and one does not always get work. What is
left for me? To break my heart with grief looking at you two
dear ones. In what way can I be of ttie sUghtest use to you?
And why am I so necessary to you, my friend? What good
have I done you? I am only devoted to you with my whole
soul, I love you warmly, intensely, with my whole heart, but—
my fate is a bitter one ! I know how to love and I can love,
but I can do nothing to repay you for your kindness. Don't
dissuade me any more, think it over and tell me your final
opinion. Meanwhile I remain your loving,

V.D.

Jidyi.
Nonsense, nonsense, Varinka, simply nonsense! Let you
alone and there's no knowing what notion you will take into
your httle head. One thing's not right and another thing's not
right. And I see now that it is all nonsense. And what more
do you want, my dear girl? just tell me that! We love you,
you love us, we're all contented and happy — ^what more do you
want? And what will you do among strangers? I expect you
don't know yet what strangers are like . . . You had better
ask me and I will tell you what strangers are like. I know

i86

them, my darling, I know them very well, I've had to eat
their bread. They are spiteful, Varinka, spiteful; so spiteful
that you would have no heart left, they would torment it so
with reproach, upbraiding and ill looks. You are snug and
happy among us as though you were in a little nest; besides,
we shall feel as though we had lost our head when you are
gone; why, what can we do without you; what is an old man
like me to do then? You are no use to us? No good to us?
How no good? Come, my love, think yourself how much good
you are ! You are a great deal of good to me, Varinka You
have such a good influence . . . Here I am thinking about
you now and I am happy . . . Sometimes I write you a letter
and put all my feelings into it and get a full answer to every-
thing back from you. I bought you a httle wardrobe, got you
a hat; some commission comes from you; I carry out the com-
mission . . . How can you say, you are no use to me? And
what should I be good for in my old age? Perhaps you have
not thought of that, Varinka; that's just what you had better
think about, 'what will he be good for without me? ' I am used
to you, my darling. Or else what will come of it? I shall go
straight to the Neva, and that will be the end of it. Yes,
really, Varinka, that will be the only thing left for me to do
when you are gone. Ah, Varinka, my darUng. It seems you
want me to be taken to Volkovo Cemetery in a common cart;
with only an old draggletail beggar-woman to follow me to the
grave; you want them to throw tihe earth upon me and go away
and leave me alone. It's too bad, too bad, my dear! It's
sinful really, upon my word it's a sin! I send you back your
book, Varinka, my darling, and if you ask my opinion about
your book, dear, I must say that never in my life have I read
such a splendid book. I wonder now, my darUng, how I can
have lived till now such an ignoramus, God forgive me ! What
have I been doing? What backwoods have I been brought
up in? Why, I know nothing, my dear girl; why, I know
absolutely nothing. I know nothing at all. I tell you, Varinka,
plainly — I'm a man of no education : I have read little hitherto
— rvery little, scarcely anjTthing: I have read The Picture of
Man, a clever work; I have read The boy mho played fmmy
tunes ofu the beEs cUid The Cranes of Ibious; that's all, and I
never read anj^hing else. Now I have read The StaMomnaster
in your book; let me tell you, my darling, it happens that one
goes on living, and one does not know that there is a book
ttiere at one's side where one's whole life is set forth, as though

187 "^

it were reckoned upon one's fingers. And what one never so
much as guessed before, when one begins reading such a book
one remembers Uttle by little and guesses and discovers. And
this is another reason why I Uke your book: one sometimes
reads a book, whatever it may be, and you can't for the life
of you understand it, it's so deep. I, for instance, am stupid,
I'm stupid by nature, so I can't read very serious books; but
I read tiiis as though I had written it myself, as though I had
taken my own heart, just as it is, and turned it inside out
before people and described it in detail, that's what it is like.
And it's a simple subject, my goodness, yet what a thing it is!
Really it is just as I diould have described it; why not describe
it? You know I feel exactly the same as in the book, and I
have been at times in exactly the same positions as, for
instance, that Samson Vyrin, poor fellow. And how many
Samson Vyrins are going about amongst us, poor dears! And
how clearly it is all described ! Tears almost started into my
eyes when I read that the poor sinner took to drink, became
such a drunkard that he lost his senses and slept the whole day
under a sheepskin coat and drowned his grirf in punch, and
wept pdteously, wiping his eyes with the dirty skirt of his coat
when he thought of his lost lajnb, his daughter Dunyasha. Yes,
it's naturcd. You should read it, it's natural. It's living! I've
seen it myself; it's all about me; take Teresa, for instance-
but why go so far? Take our poor clerk, for instance — Why,
he is perhaps just a Samson Vyrin, only he has another sur-
name, Gorshkov. It's the general lot, Varinka dear, it might
happen to you or to me. And the count who Uves on the
Nevsky on the riverside, he would be just the same, it would
only seem different because everything there is done in their
own way, in style, yet he would be just the same, anything
may happen, and the same thing may happen to me. That's
the truth of the matter, my darling, and yet j«)u want to go
away from us; it's a sin, Varinka, it may be the end of me.
You may be the ruin of yourself and me too, my own. Oh,
my little dearie, for God's sake put out of your httle head all
these wilful ideas and don't torment me for nothing. How can
you keep yourself, my weak Uttle unfledged bird? How can
you save yourself from ruin, protect yourself from villains?
Give over, Varinka, think better of it; don't listen to non-
sensical advice and persuasion, and read your book again, read
it with attention; that will do you good.

I talked of The Statkmmmter to Ratazj^iev. He told me

i88

that that was all old-fashioned and that now books with
pictures and descriptions have all come in; I really did not quite
understand what he said about it. He ended by saying that
Pushkin is fine and that he is a glory to holy Russia, and he
said a great deal more to me about him. Yes, it's good,
Varinka, very good; read it again with attention; follow my
advice, and make an old man happy by your obedience. Then
God Himself will reward you, my own, He will certainly
reward you.

Your sincere friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

Dear Sir, Makar Dyevushkin,

Fedora brought me fifteen silver roubles to-day. How
pleased she was, poor thing, when I gave her three 1 I write to
you in haste. I am now cutting you out a waistcoat — ^it's
charming material — ^yellow with flowers on it. I send you a
book: there are all sorts of stories in it; I have read some of
them, read the one called The Cloak. You persuade me to go
to the theatre with you; wouldn't it be expensive? Perhaps
we could go to the gallery somewhere. It's a long while since
I've been to the theatre, in fact I can't remember when I went.
Only I'm afraid whether such a treat would not cost too much?
Fedora simply shakes her head. She says that you have begun
to live beyond your means and I see how much you spend, on
me alone! Mind, my friend, that you don't get into difficulties.
Fedora tells me of rumours — that you have had a quarrel with
your landlady for not paying your rent; I am very anxious
about you. Well, good-bye, I'm in a hurry. It's a trifling
matter, I'm altering a ribbon on a hat.

P.S. — You know, if we go to the theatre, I shall wear my new
hat and my black mantle. Will that be all right?

Jtdy 7.

Dear Madam, Varvara Alexyevna,

... So I keep thinking about yesterday. Yes, my dear
girl, even we have had our follies in the post. I fell in love
with that actress, I fell head over ears in love with her, but that
was nothing. The strangest thing was that I had scarcely seen
her at all, and had only been at tihe theatre once, and yet for all
that I fell in love. There lived next door to me five noisy young
fellows. I got to know them, I could not help getting to know
them, though I always kept at a respectable distance from

189

them. But not to be behind them I agreed with them in every-
thing. They talked to me about this actress. Every evening as
soon as the theatre was opened, the whole company — ihsy
never had a halfpeimy for necessities — the whole party set ofi
to the theatre to the gallery and kept clapping and clapping,
and calling, calling for that actress — they were simply frantic!
And after that they would not let one sleep; they would talk
about her all night without ceasing, everyone called ha: his
Glasha, everyone of them was in love wilii her, they all had
the same canary in their hearts. They worked me up: I was a
helpless youngster then. I don't know how I came to go, but
one evening I foimd myself in the fourth gallery with them.
As for seeing, I could see nothing more than the comer of the
curtain, but I heard everything. The actress certainly had a
pretty voice — a musical voice like a nightingale, as sweet as
honey; we all clapped our hands and shouted and shouted, we
almost got into trouble, one was actually turned out. I went
home. I walked along as though I were drunk ! J had nothing
left in my pocket but one silver rouble, and it was a good ten
days before I could get my salary. And what do you think, my
love? Next day before going to the ofi&ce I went to a French
perfumer's and spent my whole forttme on perfume and scented
soap-^I really don't know why I bought aU that. And I did
not dine at home but spent the whole time walking up and
down outside her window. She Uved in Nevsky Prospect on
the fourth storey. I went home for an hour or so, rested, and
out into the Nevsky again, simply to pass by her windows. For
six weeks I used to walk to and fro like that cind hang about
her; I was constantly hiring smart sledges and kept driving
about so as to pass her window: I ruined m5^self completely,
ran into debt, and then got over my passion, I got tired of it.
So you see, my precious, what an actress can make of a respect-
able man ! I was a youngster though , I was a youngster
then! . . .

M.D.

Julys.
Dear Madam, Vaevara Alexyevna,

I hasten to return you the book you lent me on the
sixth of this month, and therewith I hasten to discuss the
matter with you. It's wrong of you, my dear girl, it's wrong of
you to put me to the necessity of it. Allow me to tell you, my
good friend, every position in the lot of man is ordained by

190

the Almighty. One man is ordained to wear the epaulettes of
a general, while it is another's lot to serve as a titular
councillor; it is for one to give commands, for another to obey
without repining, in fear and humility. It is in accordance with
man's capacities; one is fit for one thing and one for another,
and their capacities are ordained by God himself. I have been
nearly thirty years in the service; my record is irreproachable;
I have been sober in my behaviour, and I have never had any
irregularity pmt down to me. As a citizen I look up>on myself
in my own mind as having my faults, but my virtues, too. I
am respected by my superiors, and His Excellency himself is
satisfied with me; and though he has not so far shown me any
special marks of favour, yet I know that he is satisfied. My
handwriting is fairly legible and good, not too big and not too
small, rather in the style of italics, but in any case satisfactory;
there is no one among us except, perhaps, Ivan Prokofyevitch
who writes as well. I am old and my hair is grey; that's the
only fault I know of in me. Of course, there is no one without
his little failings. We're all sinners, even you are a sinner,
my dear I But no serious offence, no impudence has ever been
recorded against me, such as anything against the regulations,
or any disturbance of pubUc tranquillity; I have never been
noticed for anything like that, such a thing has never happened
— ^in fact, I almost got a decoration, but what's the use of
talking! You ought to have known all that, my dear, and he
ought to have known; if a man undertakes to write he ought
to know all about it. No, I did not expect this from you, my
dear girl, no, Varinka ! You are the last person from whom I
should have expected it.

What! So now you can't live quietly in your own little
comer — ^whatever it may be like — ^not stirring up any mud, as
the sa3ang is, interfering with no one, knowing yourself, and
fearing God, without people's interfering with you, without
their prying into your Uttle den and trying to see what sort of
life you lead at home, whether for instance you have a good
waistcoat, whether you have all you ought to have in the way
of underclothes, whether you have boots and what they are
lined with; what you eat, what you drink, what you write?
And what even if I do sometimes walk on tiptoe to save my
boots where the pavement's bad? Why write of another man
that he sometimes goes short, that he has no tea to drink, as
though everyone is always bound to drink tea — do I look into
another man's mouth to see how he chews his crust, have I ever

191

insulted anyone in that way? No, my dear, why insult people,
when they are not interfering with you I Look here, Varvara
Alexyevna, this is what it comes to: you work, and work
regularly and devotedly; and your superiors respect you (how-
ever things may be, they do respect you), and here under
your very nose, for no apparent reason, neither with your leave
nor by your leave, somebody makes a caricature of you. Of
course one does sometimes get something new — and is so
pleased that one lies awake thinking about it, one is so pleased,
one puts on new boots for instance, with such enjoyment; that
is true : I have felt it because it is pleasant to see one's foot in
a fine smart boot — that's truly described ! But I am really sur-
prised that Fyodor Fyodorovitch should have let such a book
pass without notice and without defending himself. It is true
that, though he is a high official, he is young and likes at times
to make his voice heard. Why shouldn't he make his voice
heard, why not give us a scolding if we need it? Scold to keep
up the tone of tihe of&ce, for instance — weU, he must, to keep
up the tone; you must teach men, you must give them a good
talking to; for, between ourselves, Varinka, we clerks do
nothing without a good talking to. Everyone is only on the
look-out to get off somewhere, so as to say, I was sent here or
there, and to avoid work and edge out of it. And as there are
various grades in the service and as each grade requires a
special sort of reprimand corresponding to the grade, it's
natural that the tone of the reprimand should differ in the
various grades — that's in the order of things — ^why, the whole
world rests on that, my dear soul, on our all keeping up our
authority with one another, on each one of us scolding the
other. Without that precaution, the world could not go on and
there would be no sort of order. I am really surprised that
Fyodor Fyodorovitch let such an insult pass without atten-
tion. And why write such things? And what's the use of it?
Why, will someone who reads it order me a cloak because of it;
will he buy me new boots? No, Varinka, he will read it and
ask for a contribution. One hides oneself sometimes, one hides
oneself, one tries to conceal one's weak points, one's afraid to
show one's nose at times anjrwhere because one is afraid of
tittle-tattle, because they can work up a tale against you about
anything in the world — anj^ing. And here now all one's
private and public life is being dragged into literature, it is all
printed, read, laughed and gossiped about! Why, it will be
impossible to show oneself in the street. It's all so plainly told,

192

you know, that one might be recognised in one's walk. To be
sure, it's as well that he does make up for it a little at the end,
that he does soften it a bit, that after that passage when they
throw the papers at his head, it does put in, for instance, that
for cdl that he was a conscientious man, a good citizen, that
he did not deserve such treatment from his fellow-clerks, that
he respected his elders (his example might be followed,
perhaps, in that), had no ill-will against anyone, believed in
God and died (if he will have it that he died) regretted. But
it would have been better not to let him die, poor fellow, but
to make the coat be found, to make Fyodor Fyodorovitch —
what am I saying? I mean, make that general, finding out his
good qualities, question him in his office, promote him in his
office, and give him a good increase in his salary, for then, you
see, wickedness would have been pimished, and virtue would
have been triumphant, and his fellow-clerks would have got
nothing by it. I should have done that, for insteince, but as
it is, what is there special about it, what is there good in it?
It's' just an insignificant example from vulgar, everyday life.
And what induced you to send me such a book, my own? Why,
it's a book of an evil tendency, Varinka, it's untrue to life,
for there cannot have been such a clerk. No, I must make a
complaint, Varinka. I must make a formal complaint.
Your very humble servant,

Makae Dyevushkin.

/^y 27.
Dear Sir, Makar Alexyevitch,

Your latest doings and letters have frightened, shocked,
and amazed me, and what Fedora tells me has explained it all.
But what reason had you to be so desperate cind to sink to such
a depth as you have sunk to, Makar Alexyevitch? Your
explanation has not satisfied me at all. Isn't it clear that I was
right in trying to insist on tciking the situation that was offered
me? Besides, my last adventure has thoroughly frightened me.
You say that it's your love for me that makes you keep in
hiding from me. I saw that I was deeply indebted to you while
you persuaded me that you were only spending your savings
on me, which you said you had lying by in the bank in case
of need. Now, when I learn that you l^d no such money at
all, but, hearing by chance of my straitened position, and
touched by it, you actually spent your salary, getting it in
advance, and even sold your clothes when I was iU — now that

193

I have discovered all this I am put m such an agonising position
that I still don't know how to take it, and what to think
about it. Oh, Makar Alexyevitch I You ought to have confined
yourself to that first kind help inspired by sjmipathy and the
feeling of kinship and not have wasted money afterwards on
luxuries. You have been false to our friendship, Makar
Alexyevitch, for you weren't open with me. And now, when I
see that you were spending your last penny on finery, on sweet-
meats, on excursions, on the theatre and on books — now I am
paying dearly for all that in regret for my frivolity (for I took
it all from you without troubling myself about you); and every-
thing with which you tried to give me pleasure is now turned
to grief for me, and has left nothing but useless regret. I have
noticed your depression of late, and, although I was nervously
apprehensive of some trouble, what has happened never
entered my head. What! Could you lose heart so completely,
Makar Alexyevitch! Why, what am I to think of you now,
what will everyone who knows you say of you now? You,
whom I always respected for your good heart, your discretion,
and your good sense. You have suddenly given way to such a
revolting vice, of which one saw no sign in you before. What
were my feelings when Fedora told me you were found in the
street in a state of inebriety, and were brought home to your
lodgings by the police 1 I was petrified with amazement, though
I did expect something extraordinary, as there had been no
sign of you for four days. Have you thought, Makar
Alexyevitch, what your chiefs at the office will say when they
learn the true cause of your absence? You say that everytme
laughs at you, that they all know of our friendship, and that
your neighbours speeik of me in their jokes, too. Don't pay
any attention to that, Makar Alexyevitch, and for goodness'
sake, calm yourself. I am alarmed about your affair with those
officers, too; I have heard a vague account of it. Do explain
what it all means. You write that you were afraid to tell me,
that you were afraid to lose my affection by your confession,
that you were in despair, not knowing how to help me in my
illness, that you sold everything to keep me and prevent my
going to hospital, that you got into debt as far as you possibly
could, and have unpleasant scenes every day with your land-
lady — ^but you made a mistake in concealing all this from me.
Now I know it all, however. You were reluctant to make me
realise that I was tiie cause of your unhappy position, and now
you have caused me twice as much grief by your behaviour.

194

All this has shocked me, Makar Alexyevitch. Oh, my dear
friend! misfortune is an infectious disease, the poor and un-
fortunate ought to avoid one another, for fear of making each
other worse. I have brought you trouble such as you knew
nothing of in your old humble and soUtaiy existence. All this
is distressing and killing me.

Write me now openly all that happened to you and how you
came to behave like that. Set my mind at rest if possible. It
isn't selfishness makes me write to you about my peace of
mind, but my affection and love for you, which nothing will
ever efface from my heart. Good-bye. I await your answer
with impatience. You had a very poor idea of me, Makar
Alexyevitch.

Your loving

Vaevaea Dobroselov.

Jidy 28.
My precious Varvara Alexyevna —

Well, as now everything is over and, little by little,
things are beginning to be as tiiey used to be, again let me tell
you one thing, my good friend: you are worried by what
people will think about me, to which I hasten to assure you,
Varvara Alexyevna, that my reputation is dearer to me than
anything. For which reason and with reference to my mis-
fortunes and all those disorderly proceedings I beg to inform
you that no one of the authorities at the office know an57thing
about it or will know anything about it. So that they will all
feel the same respect for me as before. The one thing I'm afraid
of is gossip. At home our landlady did nothing but shout,
and now that with the help of your ten roubles I have paid part
of what I owe her she does nothing more than grumble; as for
other people, they don't matter, one mustn't borrow money of
them, that's aJl, and to conclude my explanations I tell you,
Varvara Alexyevna, that your respect for me I esteem more
highly than an5^hing on earth, and I am comforted by it now
in my temporary troubles. Thank God that the first blow and
the first shock are over and that you have taken it as you have,
and don't look on me as a false friend, or an egoist for keeping
you here and deceiving you because I love you' as my angel
and could not bring myself to part from you. I've set to work
again assiduously and have begun performing my duties well.
Yevstafy Ivanovitch did just say a word when I passed him
by yesterday. I will not conceal from you, Varinka, that I am

195 Q*

overwhelmed by my debts and the awful condition of my ward-
robe, but that again does not matter, and about that too, I
entreat you, do not despair, my dear. Send me another half
rouble. Varinka, that half rouble rends my heart too. So that's
what it has come to now, that is how it is, old fool that I am;
it's not I helping you, my angel, but you, my poor little
orphan, helping me. Fedora did well to get the money. For
the time I have no hopes of getting any, but if there should be
any prospects I will write to you fully about it all. But gossip,
gossip is what I am most uneasy about. I kiss your little hand
and implore you to get well. I don't write more fully because
I am in haste to get to the office. For I want by industry and
assiduity to atone for all my shortcomings in the way of
negligence in the office; a further account of all that happened
and my adventures with the officers I put off till this evening.
Your respectful and loving

Makar Dyevushkin.

Jidy 28.
My precious Varinka —

Ach, Varinka, Varinka! This time the sin is on your
side and your conscience. You completely upset and perplexed
me by your letter, and only now, when at my leisure I looked
into the inmost recesses of my heart, I saw that I was right,
perfectly right. I am not talking of my drinking (that's enough
of it, my dear soul, that's enough) but about my loving you
and that I was not at all imreasonable in loving you, not at
all unreasonable. You know nothing about it, my darling; why,
if only you knew why it all was, why I was bound to love you,
you wouldn't talk like that. All your reasoning about it is only
talk, and I am sure that in your heart you feel quite differently.
My precious, I don't even know myself and don't remember
what happened between me and the officers. I must tell you,
my angel, that up to that time I was in the most terrible
pCTturlmtion. Only imagine 1 for a whole month I had been
clinging to one thread, so to say. My position was most awful.
I was concealing it from you, and concealing it at home too.
But my landlady made a fuss and a clamour. I should not
have minded that. The wretched woman might have
clamoured but, for one thing, it was the disgrace and, for
another, she had found out about our friendship — God knows
how — and was making such talk about it all over the house that
I was numb with horror and put wool in my ears, but the

196

worst of it is that other people did not put wool in theirs, but
pricked them up, on the contrary. Even now I don't know
where to hide myself. . . .

Well, my angel, all this accumulation of misfortunes of all
sorts overwhelmed me utterly. Suddenly I heard a strange
thing from Fedora : that a worthless profligate had called upon
you and had insulted you by dishonourable proposals; that he
did insult you, insult you deeply, I can judge from myself, my
darling, for I was deeply insulted myself. That crushed me,
my angel, that overwhelmed me and made me lose my head
completely. I ran out, Varinka dear, in unutterable fury. I
wanted to go straight to him, the reprobate. I did not know
what I meant to do. I won't have you insulted, my angel!
Well, I was sad! And at that time it was raining, sleet was
falling, it was horribly wretched! ... I meant to turn back.
. . . Then came my downfall. I met Emelyan llyitch — ^he is
a clerk, that is, was a clerk, but he is not a clerk now because
he was turned out of our office. I don't know what he does
now, he just hangs about there. Well, I went with him. Then
— but there, Vannka, will it amuse you to read about your
friend's misfortunes, his troubles, and the story of the trials
he has endured? Three days later that Emelyan egged me on
and I went to see him, that ofhcer. I got his address from our
porter. Since we are tcdking about it, my dear, I noticed that
young gallant long ago : I kept an eye upon him when he lodged
in oiu: buildings. I see now that what I did was unseemly,
because I was not myself when I was shown up to him. Truly,
Varinka, I don't remember anything about it, aU I remember
is that there were a great many officers with him, else I was
seeing double — goodness knows. I don't remember what I said
either, I only know that I said a great deal in my honest in-
dignation. But then they turned me out, then they threw me
downstairs — rthat is, not really threw me downstairs, but turned
me out. You know already, Varinka, how I returned: that's
the whole story. Of course I lowered m37self and my reputa-
tion has suffered, but, after all, no one knows of it but you,
no outsider knows of it, and so it is all as though it had never
happened. Perhaps that is so, Varinka, what do you think?
The only thing is, I know for a fact that last year Aksenty
Osipovitch in the same way assaulted Pyotr Petrovitch but in
secret, he did it in secret. He called him into the porter's
room — I saw it all through the crack in the door — and tiiere he
settled the matter, as was fitting, but in a gentlemanly way, for

197

no one saw it except me, and I did not matter — ^that is, I did
not tell anyone. Well, after that Pyotr Petrovitcli and Aksenty
Osipovitch were all right together. Pyotr Petrovitch, you
know, is a man with self-respect, so he told no one, so that now
they even bow and shake hands. I don't dispute, Varinka, I
don't venture to dispute with you that I have degraded myself
terribly, and, what is worst of all, I have lowered myself in my
own opinion, but no doubt it was destined from my birth, no
doubt it was my fate, and there's no escaping one's fate, you
know.

Well, that is an exact account of my troubles and mis-
fortunes, Varinka, all of them, things such that reading of them
is unprofitable. I am very far from well, Varinka, and have
lost all the playfulness of my feehngs. Herewith I beg to
testify to my devotion, love and respect. I remain, dear
madam, Varvara Alexyevna,

Your humble servant,

Makae Dyevushkin.

July 29.
My dear Makar Alexyevitch!

I have read your two letters, and positively groaned I
Listen, my dear; you are either concealing something from me
and have written to me only part of all your troubles, or . . .
really, Makar Alexyevitch, there is a touch of incoherency
about your letters still. . . . Come and see me, for goodness'
sake, come to-day; and listen, come straight to dinner, you
know I don't know how you are living, or how you have
managed about your landlady. You write nothing about all
that, and your silence seems intentional. So, good-bye, my
friend; be sure and come to us to-day; and you would do better
to come to us for dinner every day. Fedora cooks very nicely.
Good-bye.

Your

Varvara Dobroselov.

August I.
My dear Varvara Alexyevna —

You are glad, my dear girl, that God has sent you a chance
to do one good turn for another and show your gratitude to me.
I believe that, Varinka, and I believe in the goodness of your
angelic heart, and I am not sa3dng it to reproach you — only do
not upbraid me for being a spendthrift in my old age. Well,

198

if I have done wrong, there's no help for it; only to hear it from
you, my dearie, is very bitter ! Don't be angry with me for say-
ing so, my heart's all one ache. Poor people are touchy — that's
in the nature of things. I felt that even in the past. The poor
man is exacting; he takes a different view of God's world, and
looks askance at every passer-by and turns a troubled gaze
about him and looks to every word, wondering whether people
are not talking about him, whether they are saying that he is so
ugly, speculating about what he would feel exactly, what he
would be on this side and what he would be on that side, and
everyone knows, Varinka, that a poor man is worse than a rag
and can get no respect from anyone; whatever they may write,
those scribblers, it will always be the same with the poor man
as it has been. And why will it always be as it has been?
Because to their thinking the poor man must be turned inside
out, he must have no privacy, no pride whatever! Emelyan
told me the other day tiiat they got up a subscription for him
and made a sort of ofiBcial inspection over every sixpence; they
thought that they were giving him his sixpences for nothing,
but they were not; they were paid for them by showing him
he was a poor man. Nowadays, my dear soul, benevolence
is practised in a very queer way . . . and perhaps it always
has been so, who knows ! Either people don't know how to do
it or they are first-rate hands at it — one of the two. Perhaps
you did not know it, so there it is for you. On anjrthing else
we can say nothing, but on this subject we are authorities!
And how is it a poor msm knows all this and thinks of it all
like this? Why?: — ^from experience! Because he knows for
instance, that tiiere is a gentleman at his side, who is going
somewhere to a restaurant and saying to himself, "What's this
beggarly clerk going to eat to-day? I'm going to eat semle
papiUotte while he is going to eat porridge without butter,
maybe." And what business is it to him that I am going to eat
porridge without butter? There are men, Varinka, there are
men who think of nothing else. And they go about, the indecent
caricaturists, and look whether one puts one's whole foot down
on the pavement or walks on tiptoe; they notice that such
a clerk, of such a department, a titular councillor, has his bare
toes sticking out of his boot, that he has holes in his elbow —
and then they sit down at home and describe it all and publish
such rubbish . . . and what business is it of yours, sir, if my
elbows are in holes? Yes, if you will excuse me the coarse
expression, Varinka, I will tell you that the poor man has the

199

same sort of modesty on that score as you, for instance, have
maidenly modesty. Why, you wouldn't divest yourself of your
clothing before everyone — ^forgive my coarse comparison. So,
in the same way, the poor man does not like people to peep
into his poor hole and wonder about his domestic arrangements.
So what need was there to join in insulting me, Varinka, with
the enemies who are attacking an honest man's honour and
reputation?

And in the office to-day I sat like a hen, like a plucked
sparrow, so that I almost turned with shame at myself. I was
ashamed, Varinka! And one is naturally timid, when one's
elbows are seeing daylight through one's sleeves, and one's
buttons are hanging on threads. And, as ill-luck would have
it, all my things were in such disorder! You can't help losing
heart. Why! . . . Stepan Karlovitch himself began speaking
to me about my work to-day, he talked and talked away and
added, as though unawares, "Well, really, Makar Alesyevitchl"
and did not say what was in his mind, only I understood what
it was for myself, and blushed so that even the bald patch on
my head was crimson. It was really only a trifle, but still it
made me uneasy, and aroused bitter reflections. If only they
have heard nothing! Ah, God forbid that they should hear
about anything! I confess I do suspect one man. I suspect
him very much. Why, these villains stick at nothing, they will
betray me, they will give away one's whole private life for a
halfpenny — nothing is sacred to them.

I know now whose doing it is; it is Ratazyaev's doing. He
knows someone in our o£5ce, and most likely in the course of
conversation has told them the whole story with additions; or
maybe he has told the story in his own ofl&ce, and it has crept
out and crept into our of&ce. In our lodging, they all know it
down to the lowest, and point at your window; I know that they
do point. And when I went to dinner with you yesterday, they
all poked their heads out of window and the landlady said:
"Look," said she, "the devil has made friends with the baby."
And then she called you an unseemly name. But all that's
nothing beside Ratazyaev's disgusting design to put you and
me into his writing and to describe us in a cunfiing satire; he
spoke of this himself, and friendly fellow-lodgers have repeated
it to me. I can think of nothing else, my darling, and don't
know what to decide to do. There is no concealing the fact, we
have provoked the wrath of God, Uttle angel. You meant to
send me a book, my good friend, to relieve my dullness; what

200

is the use of a book, my love, what's the good of it? It's
arrant nonsense! The story is nonsense and it is written as
nonsense, just for idle people to read; trust me, my dear soul,
trust the experience of my age. And what if they talk to you
of some Shakespeare, sajTing, "You see that Shakespeare wrote
literature," well, then, Shakespeare is nonsense; it's all arrant
nonsense and only written to jeer at folk !

Yours,
Makar Dyevushkin.

Augmt 2.
Dear Makar Alexyevitch !

Don't worry about anything; please God it will all be set
right. Fedora has got a lot of work both for herself and for
me, and we have set to work very happily; perhaps we shall
save the situation. She suspects that Anna Fyodorovna had
some hand in this last unpleasant business; but now I don't
care. I feel somehow particularly cheerful to-day. You want
to borrow money — God forbid! You'll get into trouble after-
wards when you need to pay it back. We had much better live
more frugally; come to us more often, and don't take any
notice of your landlady. As for your other enemies and ill-
wishers, I am sure you are worrying yourself with needless
suspicions, Makar Alexyevitch! Mind, I told you last time
that your language was very exaggerated. Well, good-bye till
we meet. I expect you without fail.

Your
V. D.

August 3.
My Angel, Varvara Alexyevna,

I hasten to tell you, my little life, I have fresh hopes
of something. But excuse me, my little daughter, you write,
my angel, that I am not to borrow money. My darling, it is
impossible to avoid it; here I am in a bad way, cind what if
anything were suddenly amiss with you! You are frail, you
know; so that's why I say we must borrow. Well, so I will
continue.

I beg to inform you, Varvara Alexyevna, that in the of&ce
I am sitting next to Emelyan Ivanovitch. That's not the
Emelyan Ilyitch whom you know. He is, like me, a titular
councillor, and he and I are almost the oldest veterans in the
of&ce. He is a good-natured soul, an unworldly soul; he's not

201

given to talking and always sits like a regular bear. But he is a
good clerk and has a good English handwriting and, to tell the
whole truth, he writes as well as I do — he's a worthy man ! I
never was very intimate with him, but only just say good-morn-
ing and good-evening; or if I wanted the pen-knife, I would say,
"Give me the pen-knife, Emel5^n Ivanovitch"; in short, our
intercourse was confined to our common necessities. Well so,
he says to me to-day, "Makar Alexyevitch, why are you so
thoughtful?" I see the man wishes me kindly, so I told him —
I said, "This is how it is, Emelyan Ivanovitch" — that is, I
did not tell him everything, and indeed, God forbid! I never
will tell the story because I haven't the heart to, but just told
him something, that I was in straits for money, and so on.
"You should borrow, my good soul," said Emelyan Ivano-
vitch: "you should borrow; from Pyotr Petrovitch you might
borrow, he lends money at interest; I have borrowed and he
asks a decent rate of interest, not exorbitant.' Well, Varinka,
my heart gave a leap. I thought and thought maybe the Lord
will put it into the heart of Pyotr Petrovitch and in his benevo-
lence he will lend me the money. Already I was reckoning to
myself that I could pay the landlady and help you, and clear
m37self all round. Whereas now it is such a disgrace, one is
afraid to be in one's own place, let alone the jeers of our
grinning jackanapes. Bother them ! And besides, his Excellency
sometimes passes by our table : why, God forbid 1 he may cast
a glance in my direction and notice I'm not decently dressed!
And he makes a great point of neatness and tidiness. Maybe
he would say nothing, but I should die of shame — ^that's how
it would be. In consequence I screwed myself up and, putting
my pride in my ragged pocket, I went up to Pyotr Petrovitch
full of hope and at the same time more dead fiian alive with
suspense. But, after all, Varinka, it all ended in foolishness!
He was busy with something, talking with Fedosey Ivanovitch.
I went up to him sideways and pulled him by the sleeve, say-
ing, "Pyotr Petrovitch, I say, Pyotr Petrovitch!" He looked
round, eind I went on : saying, "this is how it is, thirty roubles,'
and so on. At first he did not understand me, and when I
explained it all to him, he laughed, and said nothing. I said
the same thing again. And he said to me, "Have you got a
pledge?" And he buried himself in his writing and did not
even glance at me. I was a little flustered. "No," I said,
Pyotr Petrovitch, I've no pledge," and I explained to him that
when I got my salary I would pay him, would be sure to pay

202

him, I should consider it my first duty. Then somebody called
him. I waited for him, he came back and began mending a
pen and did not seem to notice me, and I kept on with "Pyotr
Petrovitch, can't you manage it somehow?" He said nothing
and seemed not to hear me. I kept on standing there. Well, I
thought I would try for the last time, and pulled him by the
sleeve. He just muttered something, cleaned his pen, and began
writing. I walked away. You see, my dear girl, they may be
excellent people, but proud, very proud — ^but I don't mind!
We are not fit company for them, Varinkal That is why I
have written all this to you. Emelyan Ivanovitch laughed,
too, and shook his head, but he cheered me up, the dear fellow
— ^Emelyan Ivanovitch is a worthy man. He promised to intro-
duce me to a man who lives in the Vybord Side, Varinka, and
lends money at interest too; he is some sort of clerk of the
fourteenth class. Emelyan Ivanovitch says he will be sure to
lend it. Shall I go to ham to-morrow, my angel, eh? What do
you think? It is awful if I don't. My Icindlady is almost turn-
ing me out and won't consent to give me my dinner; besides,
my boots are in a dreadful state, my dear; I've no buttons
eitiher and nothing else besides. J^d what if anyone in
authority at the office notices such unseemliness; it will be
awful, Varinka, simply awful!

Makae Dyevushkin.

August 4.
Dear Makar Alexyevitch,

For God's sake, Makar Alexyevitch, borrow some money
as soon as possible ! I would not for anything have asked you
for help as things are at present, but if you only knew what a
position I am in. It's utterly impossible for us to remain in
this lodging. A horribly unpleasant thing has happened here,
and if only you knew how upset and agitated I am! Only
imagiae, my friend; this morning a stranger came into our
lodging, an elderly, almost old man, wearing orders. I was
amazed, not knowing what he wanted with us. Fedora had
gone out to a shop at the time. He began asking me how I lived
and what I did, and without waiting for an answer, told me
that he was the uncle of that officer; that he was very angry
with his nephew for his disgraceful behaviour, and for having
given us a Ixid name all over the buildings; said that his nephew
was a featherheaded scamp, and that he was ready to take me
under his protection; advised me not to listen to young men,

203

added that he sympathised with me like a father, that he felt a
father's feeling for me and was ready to help me in any way.
I blushed all over, not knowing what to think, but was in no
haste to thank him. He took my hand by force, patted me on
the cheek, told me I was very pretty and that he was delighted
to find I had dimples in my cheeks (goodness knows what he
said ! ) and at last tried to kiss me, sa5dng that he was an old
man (he was so loathsome). At that point Fedora came in. He
was a little disconcerted and began sajdng again that he felt
respect for me, for my discretion and good principles, and that
he was very anxious that I should not treat him as a stranger.
Then he drew Fedora aside and on some strange pretext wanted
to give her a lot of money. Fedora, of course, would not take
it. At last he got up to go, he repeated once more all his
assurances, said that he would come and see me again and
bring me some ear-rings (I beUeve he, too, was very much
embarrassed); he advised me to change my lodgings and recom-
mended me a very nice lodging which he had his eye on, and
which would cost me nothing; he said that he liked me very
much for being an honest and sensible girl, advised me to
beware of profligate men, and finally told us that he knew Anna
Fyodorovna and that Anna Fyodorovna had commissioned him
to teU me that she would come and see me herself. Then I
understood it all. I don't know what came over me; it was the
first time in my life I had had such an experience; I flew into a
fury, I put him to shame completely. Fedora helped me, and
we almost timied him out of the flat. We've come to the con-
clusion that it is all Anna Fyodorovna' s doing; how else could
he have heard of us?

Now I appeal to you, Makar Alexyevitch, and entreat you to
help us. For God's sake, don't desert me in this awful position.
Please borrow, get hold of some money cUiyway; we've no
money to move with and we mustn't stay here any longer;
that's Fedora's advice. We need at least thirty-five roubles;
I'll pay you back the money; I'll earn it. Fedora will get me
some more work in a day or two, so that if they ask a high
interest, never mind it, but agree to anything. I'U pay it all
back, only for God's sake, don't abandon me. I can't bear
worrying you now when you are in such circumstances . . .
Good-bye, Makar Alexyevitch; think of me, and God grant you
are successful.

Yours,

V.D.

204

August 4.
My darling Varvara AlexyevnaI

All these unexpected blows positively shatter me! Such
terrible calamities destroy my spirit 1 These scoundrelly hber-
tines and rascally old men will not only bring you, my angel,
to a bed of sickness, they mean to be the death of me, too.
And they will be, too, I swear they will. You know I am ready
to die sooner than not help you I If I don't help you it wiU
be the death of me, Varinka, the actual literal death of me,
and if I do help you, you'll fly away from me like a bird out
of its nest, to escape these owls, these birds of prey that were
trying to peck her. That's what tortures me, my precious.
And you too, Varinka, you are so cruel! How can you do it?
You are tormented, you are insulted, you, my little bird, are
in distress, and then you regret that you must worry me and
promise to repay the debt, which means, to tell the truth, that
with your delicate health you wiU kill yourself, in order to
get the money for me in time. Why, only think, Varinka, what
you ar6 talking about. Why should you sew? Why should
you work, worry your poor little head with anxiety, spoil your
pretty eyes and destroy your health? Ah, Varinka, Varinka!
You see, my darling, I am good for nothing, I know
myself that I am good for nothing, but I'll manage
to be good for something! I will overcome all obstacles. I
will get outside work, I will copy all sorts of manuscripts for
all sorts of literary men. I will go to them, I won't wait to be
asked, I'll force them to give me work, for you know, my
darling, they are on the look-out for good copjdsts, I know
they look out for them, but I won't let you wear yourself out;
I won't let you carry out such a disastrous intention. I will
certainly borrow it, my angel, I'd sooner die than not borrow
it. You write, my darling, that I am not to be afraid of a high
rate of interest — and I won't be afraid of it, my dear soul, I
won't be frightened. I won't be frightened of anything now.
I will ask for forty roubles in paper, my dear; that's not much,
you know, Variiika, what do you think? Will they trust me
with forty roubles at the first word? That is, I mean to say,
do you consider me capable of inspiring trust and confidence
at first sight. Can they form a favourable impression of me
from my ph5^iognomy at first sight? Recall my appearance,
my angel; am I capable of inspiring confidence? What do you
think yourself? You know I feel such terror; it makes me quite
ill, to tell the truth, quite ill. Of the forty roubles I set aside

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twenty-five for you, Varinka, two silver roubles will be for the
landlady, and the rest I design for my own expenses. You see
I ought to give the landlady more, I must, in fact; but if you
think it all over, my dear girl, and reckon out all I need, then
you'll see that it is impossible to give her more, consequently
there's no use talking about it and no need to refer to it. For
a silver rouble I shall buy a pair of boots — I really don't know
whether I shall be able to appear at the office in the old ones;
a new necktie would have been necessary, too, for I have had
the old one a year, but since you've promised to make me,
not only a tie, but a shirtfront cut out of your old apron, I
shall think no more of a tie. So there we have boots and a tie.
Now for buttons, my dear. You will agree, my darling, that I
can't go on without buttons and almost half have dropped off.
I tremble when I think that his Excellency may notice such
untidiness and say something, and what he would say! I
shouldn't hear what he would say, my darUng, for I should
die, die, die on the spot, simply go and die of shame at the very
thought! — Ah, Varinka! — Well, after all these necessities,
there will be three roubles left, so that would do to live on and
get half a pound of tobacco, for I can't hve without tobacco,
my little angel, and this is liie ninth day since I had my pipe
in my moutii. To tell the truth, I should have bought it and
said nothing to you, but I was ashamed. You are there in
trouble depriving yourself of everything, and here am I enjoy-
ing luxuries of all sorts; so that's why I tell you about it to
escape the stings of conscience. I frankly confess, Varinka, I
am now in an extremely straitened position, that is, nothing
like it has ever happened before. My landlady despises me, I
get no sort of respect from anyone; my terrible lapses, my
debts; and at the office, where I had anj^thing but a good time,
in the old days, at the hands of my fellow clerks— now,
Varinka, it is beyond words. I hide everything, I carefully
hide everything from everyone, and I edge into the of&ce side-
ways, I hold aloof from all. It's only to you that I have the
heart to confess it. . . . And what if they won't give me the
money ! No, we had better not think about that, Varinka, not
depress our spirits beforehand with such thoughts. That's why
I am writing this, to warn you not to think about it, and not to
worry yourself with evil imaginations. Ah ! my God I what will
happen to you then! It's true that then you will not move
from that lodging and I shall be with you then. But, no, I
should not come back then, I should simply perish somewhere

2o6

and be lost. Here I have been writing away to you and I ought
to have been shaving; it makes one more presentable, and to be
presentable always counts for something. Well, God help us,
I will say my prayers, and then set off.

M. Dyevushkin.

August 5.
My dear Makar Alexyevitch,

You really mustn't give way to despair. There's trouble
enough without that.

I send you thirty kopecks in silver, I cannot manage more.
Buy yourself what you need most, so as to get along somehow,
until to-morrow. We have scarcely anything left ourselves,
and I don't know what wiU happen to-morrow. It's sad, Makar
Alexyevitch! Don't be sad, tiiough, if you've not succeeded,
there's no help for it. Fedora says that there is no harm done
so far, that we can stay for the time in this lodging, that if we
did move we shouldn't gain much by it, and that they can find
us anywhere if they want to. Though I don't feel comfortable
at staying here now. If it were not so sad I would have written
you an account of something.

What a strange character you have, Makar Alexyevitch; you
take everj^thing too much to heart and so you will be always a
very unhappy man. I read all your letters attentively and I see
in every letter you are anxious and worried about me as you
never are about yourself. Everyone says, of course, that you
have a good heart, but I say that it is too good. I will give you
some friendly advice, Makar Alexyevitch. I am grateful to
you, very grateful for all that you have done for me, I feel it
very much; so judge what it must be for me to see that even
now, after aU your misfortunes of which I have been the imcon-
scious cause — that even now you are only living in my life, my
jo)^, my sorrows, my feelings ! If one takes all another person's
troubles so to heart and sympathises so intensely with every-
thing it is bound to make one very unhappy. To-day, when
you came in to see me from the office I was frightened at the
sight of you. You were so pale, so despairing, so frightened-
looking; you did not look like yourself^ — and all because you
were afraid to tell me of your failure, afraid of disappointing
me, of frightening me, and when you saw I nearly laughed your
heart was almost at ease. Makar Alexyevitch, don't grieve,
don't despair, be more sensible, I beg you, I implore you.
Come, you will see that everything will be all right. Every-

207

thing will take a better turn : why, life will be a misery to you,
for ever grieving and being miserable over other people's
troubles. Good-bye, my dear friend. I beseech you not to
think too much about it.

V. D.

Auigust 5.
My darling Vaeinka,

Very well, my angel, very well ! You have made up your
mind that it is no harm so far that I have not got the money.
Well, very good, I feel reassured, I am happy as regards you.
I am delighted, in fact, that you are not going to leave me in
my old age but are going to stay in your lodging. In fact, to
tell you everything, my heart was brimming over with joy
when I saw that you wrote so nicely about me in your letter and
gave due credit to my feelings. I don't say this from pride,
but because I see how you love me when you are so anxious
about my heart. Well, what's the use of talking about my
heart I TTie heart goes its own way, but you hint, my precious,
that I mustn't be downhearted. Yes, my angel, maybe, and
I say myself it is of no use being downhearted! but for all
that, you tell me, my dear girl, what boots I am to go to the
ofi&ce in to-morrow! That's the trouble, Varinka; and you
know such a thought destroys a man, destroys him utterly.
And the worst of it is, my own, that it is not for mj^elf I am
troubled, it is not for myself I am distressed; as far as I am
concerned I don't mind going about without an overcoat and
without boots in the hardest frost; I don't care: I can stand
anything, and put up with anything. I am a humble man of
no importance, — but what will people say? My enemies with
their spiteful tongues, what will they say, when one goes about
without an overcoat? You know it is for the sake of other
people one wears an overcoat, yes, and boots, too, you put on,
perhaps, on their accoimt. Boots, in such cases, Varinka
darling, are necessary to keep up one's dignity and good name:
in boots with holes in them, both dignity and good name are
lost; trust the experience of my years, my dear child, listen to
an old man like me who knows the world and what people
are, and not to any scurrilous scribblers and satirists.

I have not yet told you in detail, my darUng, how it all hap-
pened to-day. I suffered so much, I endured in one morning
more mental anguish than many a man endures in a year. This
is how it was : first, I set off very early in the morning, so as to

208

find him and be in time for the office afterwards. There was
such a rain, such a sleet falling this morning! I wrapped my-
self up in my overcoat, my little dearie. I walked on and on
and I kept thinking: "'Oh, Lord, forgive my transgressions
and grant the fulfilment of my desires!" Passing St. X's
Church, I crossed myself, repented of all my sins, cind thought
that it was wrong of me to bargain with the Almighty. I was
lost in my thoughts and did not feel like looking at an37thing;
so I walked without picking my way. The streets were empty,
and the few I met all seemed anxious and preoccupied, and
no wonder: who would go out at such an early hour and in
such weather ! A gang of workmen, griiming all over, met me,
the rough fellows shoved against me ! A feeling of dread came
over me, I felt panic-stricken, to tell the truth I didn't hke
even to think about the money — I felt I must just take my
chance! Just at Voskressensky Bridge the sole came off my
boot, so I really don't know what I walked upon. And then I
met our office attendant, Yermolaev. He drew himself up at
attention and stood looking sifter me as though he would ask
for a drink. "Ech, a drink, brother," I thought; "not much
chance of a drink ! " I was awfully tired. I stood still, rested
a bit and pushed on farther; I looked about on piorpose for
something to fasten my attention on, to distract my mind, to
cheer me up, but no, I couldn't fix one thought on anything
and, besides, I was so muddy that I felt ashamed of myself.
At last I saw in the distance a yellow wooden house with an
upper storey in the style of a belvedere. "Well," thought I,
"so that's it, that's how Emelyan Ivanovitch described it —
Markov's house." (It is this Markov himself, Varinka, who
lends money.) I scarcely knew what I was doing, and I knew,
of course, that it was Markov's house, but I asked a poUceman.
"Whose house is that, brother?" said I. The policeman was a
surly fellow, seemed loth to speak and cross with someone; he
filtered his words through his teeth, but he did say it was
Markov's house. These policemen are always so unfeeling, but
what did the poUceman matter? — well, it all made a bad and un-
pleasant impression, in short, there was one thing on the top of
another; one finds in everything something akin to one's own
position, and it is always so. I took three turns past the house,
along the street, and the further I went, the worse I felt. "No,"
I thought, "he won't give it me, nothing will induce him to
I give it me. I am a stranger and it's a ticklish business, and I
am not an attractive figure. Well," I thought, "leave it to

209

Fate, if only I do not regret it afterwards; they won't devour
me for making the attempt," and I softly opened the gate, and
then another misfortune happened. A wretched, stupid yard
dog fastened upon me. It was beside itself and barked its
loudest! — and it's just such wretched, trivial incidents that
always madden a man, Varinka, and make him nervous and
destroy all the determination he has been fortifying himself
with beforehand; so that I went into the house more dead than
alive and walked straight into trouble again. Without seeing
what was below me straight in the doorway, I went in,
stumbled over a woman who was busy straining some milW
from a pail into a jug, and spilt all the milk. The silly woman
slirieked and made an outcry, saying, "Where are you shoving
to, my man?" and made a deuce of a row. I may say,
Varinka, it is always like this vtdth me in such cases; it seems
it is my fate, I always get mixed up in something. An old
hag, the Finnish landlady, poked her head out at the noise.
I went straight up to her. "Does Markov live here?" said I,
"No," said she. She stood still and took a good look at me.
"And what do you want with him?" I explained to her that
EmelycUi had told me this and that, and all the rest of it— said
it was a matter of business. The old woman called her
daughter, a barelegged girl in her teens. "Call your father;
he's upstairs at the lodger's, most likely."

I went in. The room was all right, there were pictures on the
wall — all portraits of generals, a sofa, round table, mignonette,
and balsam — I wondered whether I had not better clear out
and take myself off for good and all. And, oh dear, I did want
to run away, Varinka. "I had better come to-morrow," I
thought, "and the weather will be better and I will wait a little
— ^to-day the milk's been spilt and the generals look so
cross ..." I was already at the door — but he came in— a
greyheaded man with thievish eyes, in a greasy dressing-gown
with a cord round his waist. He enquired how and why, and
I told him that Emelyan Ivanovitch l^d told me this and that—
"Forty roubles," I said, "is what I've come about"— and I
couldn't finish. I saw from his eyes that the game was lost.
"No," says he; "the fact is, I've no money; and have you
brought anything to pledge as security?"

I began explaining that I had brought nothing to pledge, but
that Emelyan Ivanovitch — I explained in fact, what was
wanted. He heard it all. "No," said he; "what is Emelyan
Ivanovitch! I've no money."

210

Well, I thought, "There it is, I knew— I had a foreboding of
it." Well, Varinka, it would have been better really if the
earth had opened under me. I felt chill all over, my feet went
numb and a shiver ran down my back. I looked at him and
he looked at me and almost said. Come, run along, brother,
it is no use your staying here — so that if such a thing had
happened in other circumstances, I should have been quite
ashamed. "And what do you want money for?" — (do you
know, he asked that, Varinka). I opened my mouth, if only
not to stand there doing nothing, but he wouldn't listen. "No,"
he said, "I have no money, I would have lent it with
pleasure," said he. Then I pressed him, telling him I only
wanted a httle, saying I would pay him back on the day
fixed, that I would pay him back before the day fixed, that he
could ask any interest he liked and that, by God ! I would pay
him back. At that instant, my darling, I thought of you, I
thought of all your troubles and privations, I thought of your
poor little half -rouble. "But no," says he, "the interest is no
matter; if there had been a pledge now! Besides, I have no
money. I have none, by God! or I'd oblige you with pleasure,"
— ^he took God's name, too, the villain !

Well, I don't remember, my own, how I went out, how I
walked along Vyborgsky Street; how I got to Voskressensky
Bridge. I was fearfully tired, shivering, wet through, and only
succeeded in reaching the office at ten o'clock. I wanted to
brush the mud off, but Snyegirev, the porter, said I mustn't,
I should spoil the brush, and "the brush is government
property," said he. That's how they all go on now, my dear,
these gentry treat me no better than a rag to wipe their boots
on. Do you know what is kilUng me, Varinka? it's not the
money that's W illin g me, but all these little daily cares, these
whispers, smiles and jokes. His Excellency may by chance
have to refer to me. Oh, my darling, my golden days are over.
I read over all your letters to-day; it's sad, Varinka! Good-
bye, my own! The Lord keep you.

M. Dyevushkin.

P.S. — I meant to describe my troubles half in joke, Varinka,
only it seems that it does not come off with me, joking. I
wanted to satisfy you. I am coming to see you, my dear girl,
I will be sure to come.

2TI

Attgmt II.
Varvara Alexyevna, my darling,

I am lost, we are both lost, both together irretrievably
lost. My reputation, my dignity — all is destroyed! I am
ruined and you are ruined, my darling. You are hopelessly
ruined with me! It's my doing, I have brought you to mini
I am persecuted, Varinka, I am despised, turned into a
laughing-stock, and the landlady has simply begun to abuse
me; she shouted and shouted at me, to-day; she rated and
rated at me and treated me as though I were dirt. And in
the evening, at Ratazyaev's, one of them began reading aloud
the rough copy of a letter to you which I had accictentally
dropped out of my pocket. My precious, what a joke they
made of it! They called us all sorts of flattering names and
roared with laughter, the traitors! I went to them and taxed
Ratazyaev with his perfidy, told him he was a traitor! And
Ratazyaev answered that I was a traitor myself, that I amused
myself with making conquests among the fair sex. He said,
"You take good care to keep it from us; you're a Lovelace,"
he said; and now they all call me Lovelace and I have no
other name! Do you hear, my little angel, do you hear?—
they know it all now, they know all about it, and they know
about you, my own, and whatever you have, they know about
it all ! And that's not all. Even Faldoni is in it, he's follow-
ing their lead; I sent him to-day to the sausage-shop to get
me something; he wouldn't go. "I am busy," that was all he
said! "But you know it's your duty," I said. "No, indeed,"
he said, "it's not my duty. Here, you don't pay my misti«ss
her money, so I have no duty to you." I could not stand
this insult from him, an illiterate peasant, and I said, "You
fool," and he answered back, "Fool yourself." I thought he
must have had a drop too much to be so rude, and I said:
"You are drunk, you peasant!" and he answered: "Well,
not at your expense, anyway, you've nothing to get drunk on
yourself; you are begging for twenty kopecks from somebody
yourself," and he even added: "Ugh! and a gentleman too!"
There, my dear girl, that's what it has come to! One's
ashamed to be alive, Varinka! As though one were some sort
of outcast, worse than a tramp without a passport. An awful
calamity! I am ruined, simply ruined! I am irretrievably
ruined !

M.D. ,

212

Aufgicst 13.
My dear Makar Alexyevitch,

It's nothing but one trouble after another upon us. I don't
know myself what to do ! What will happen to you now? — and
I have very little to hope for either; I burnt my left hand this
morning with an iron; I dropped it accidentally and bruised
myself and burnt my hand at the same time. I can't work at
all, and Fedora has been poorly for the last three days. I am
in painful anxiety. I send you thirty kopecks in silver; it is
almost all we have left, and God knows how I should have
liked to help you in your need. I am so vexed I could cry.
Good-bye, my friend! You would comfort me very much if
you would come and see us to-day.

V.D.

August 14.
Makar Alexyevitch

What is the matter with you? It seems you have no
fear of God! You are simply driving me out of my mind.
Aren't you ashamed? You will be your own ruin; you should
at least think of your good name! You're a man of honour,
of gentlemanly feelings, of self-respect; well, when everyone
finds out about you ! Why, you will simply die of shame ! Have
you no pity for your grey hairs? Have you no fear of God?
Fedora saj^ she won't help you again, and I won't give you
money either. What have you brought me to, Makar Alexye-
vitch? I suppose you think that it is nothing to me, your
behaving so badly? You don't know what I have to put up
with on your account! I can't even go down our staircase;
everyone looks at me and points at me, and says such awful
things; they say plainly that I have taken wp with m drunkard.
Think what it is to hear that! When you are brought in all
the lodgers point at you with contempt: "Look," they say,
"they've brought that clerk in." And I'm ready to faint
with shame over you. I swear I shall move from here. I
shall go somewhere as a housemaid or a laundrymaid, I shan't
stay here. I wrote to you to come emd see me here but you
did not come. So are my tears and entreaties nothing to you,
Makar Alexyevitch? And where do you get the money? For
God's sake, do be careful. Why, you are ruining yourself,
ruining yourself for nothing! And it's a shame and a dis-
grace! The landlady would not let you in last night, you
spent the night in the porch. I know all about it. If only you

213

knew how miserable I was when I knew all about it. Come to
see me; you will be happy with us; we wiU read together, we
will recall the past. Fedora will tell us about her wanderings
as a pilgrim. For my sake, don't destroy yourself and me.
Why, I only hve for you, for your sake I am stajdng with you.
And this is how you are behaving now 1 Be a fine man, stead-
fast in misfortune, remember that poverty is not a vice. And
why despair? It is all temporary! Please God, it will all be set
right, only you must restrain yourself now. I send you twenty
kopecks. Buy yourself tobacco or anything you want, only for
God's sake don't spend it on what's harmful. Come and see us,
be sure to come. Perhaps you will be ashamed as you were
before, but don't be ashamed; it's false shame. If only you
would show genuine penitence. Trust in God. He will do all
things for the best.

V.D.

August 19.
Vaevaea Alexyevna, Darling,

I am ashamed, little dearie, Varvara Alexyevna; I am
quite ashamed. But, after all, what is there so particular about
it, my dear? Why not rejoice the heart a little? Then I
don't think about my sole, for one's sole is nonsense, and will
always remain a simple, nasty, muddy sole. Yes, and boots
are nonsense, too 1 ITie Greek sages used to go about without
boots, so why should people like us pamper ourselves with such
unworthy objects? Oh! my dearie, my dearie, you have
found something to write about ! You tell Fedora that she is
a nonsensical, fidgety, fussy woman, and, what's more, she's a
silly one, too, unutterably silly ! As for my grey hairs, you are
quite mistaken about that, my own, for I am by no means so
old as you think. Emelyan sends you his regards. You write
that you have been breaking your heart and crying; and I
write to you that I am breaking my heart, too, and crying.
In conclusion I wish you the best of health and prosperity, and
as for me I am in the best of health and prosperity, too, and
I remain, my angel, your friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

Augttst 21. ''
Honoured Madam and dear Friend, Varvara Alexyevna,
I feel that I am to blame, I feel that I have wronged you,
and to my mind there's no benefit at all, dear friend, in my

214

feeling it, whatever you may say. I felt all that even before
my misconduct, but I lost heart and fell, knowing I was doing
wrong. My dear, I am not a bad man and not cruel-hearted,
and to torture your little heart, my little darling, one must be,
more or less, lUce a bloodthirsty tiger. Well, I have the heart
of a lamb and, as you know, have no inclination towards
bloodthirstiness; consequently, my angel, I am not altogether
to blame in my misconduct, since neither my feelings nor my
thoughts were to blame; and in fact, I don't know what was
to blame; it's all so incomprehensible, my darling! you sent me
thirty kopecks in silver, and then you sent me twenty kopecks.
My heart ached looking at your poor httle coins. You had
burnt your hand, you would soon be going hungry yourself,
and you write that I am to buy tobacco. Well, how could I
behave in such a position? Was I without a pang of conscience
to begin plundering you, poor little orphan, like a robber!
Then I lost heart altogether, my darling — ^that is, at first I could
not help feeling that I was good for nothing and that I was
hardly better than the sole of my boot. And so I felt it was
unseemly to consider mjreelf of any consequence, and began to
look upon myself as something unseemly and somewhat in-
decent. Well, and when I lost my self-respect and denied my
good quaUties and my dignity, then it was all up with me, it
meant degradation, inevitable degradation! That is ordained
by destiny and I'm not to blame for it.

I went out at first to get a little air, then it was one thing
after another; nature was so tearful, the weather was cold and
it was raining. Well, Emelyan turned up. He had pawned
everything he had, Varinka, everything he had is gone: and
when I met him he had not put a drop of the rosy to his lips
for two whole days and nights, so that he was ready to pawn
what you can't pawn, because such things are never taken in
pawn. Well, Varinka, I gave way more from a feeling of
humanity than my own inclination, that's how the sin came to
pass, my dear! How we wept together! We spoke of you.
He's very good-natured, he's a very good-natured fellow and
a very feehng man. I feel all that myself, my dear girl, that
is just why it all happens to me, that I feel it all very much.
I know how much I owe to you, my darling. Getting to know
you, I came first to know myself better and to love you; and
before I knew you, my angel, I was soUtary and as it were
asleep, and scarcely alive. They said, the spiteful creatures,
that even my appearance was unseemly and they were dis-

215

gusted with me, and so I began to be disgusted with myself;
they said I was stupid and I really thought that I was sbipid.
When you came to me, you lighted up my dark life, so that my
heart and my soul were filled with light and I gained peace
at heart, and knew that I was no worse than others; that the
only thing is that I am not brilliant in any way, that I have
no poUsh or style about me, but I am still a man, in heart
and mind a man. Well now, feeling that I was persecuted and
humiliated by destiny, I lost all failJi in my own good qualities,
and, shattered by calamities, I lost all heart. And now since
you know all about it, my dear, I beg you with tears not to
question me further about that matter, for my heart is break-
ing and it is very bitter for me and hard to bear.
Assuring you of my respect, I remain, your faithful

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 3.
I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexyevitch, because
it was difficult for me to write. Sometimes I have moments
when I am glad to be alone, to mourn, with none to share my
grief, and such moments are becoming more and more frequent
with me. In my recollections there is something inexplicaWe
to me, which attacks me unaccountably and so intensdy that
for hours at a stretch I am insensible to all surrounding me and
I forget ever37thiag — all the present. And there is no impression
of my present life, whether pleasant or painful and sad, which
would not remind me of something similar in my past, and
most often in my childhood, my golden childhood! But I
always feel oppressed after such moments. I am somehow
weakened by lliem; my dreaminess exhausts me, and apart
from that my health grows worse and worse. But to-day the
fresh bright sunny morning, such as are rare in autumn here,
revived me and I welcomed it jo5^fully. And so autumn is
with us already I How I used to love the autumn in the
country! I was a child then, but I had already felt a great
deal. I loved the autumn evening better than the morning.
I remember that there was a lake at the bottom of the hill
a few yards from our house. That lake — I feel as though I
could see it now — ^that lake was so broad, so smooth, as bright
and clear as crystal! At times, if it were a still evening, Ihe
lake was calm; not a leaf would stir on the trees that grew
on the bank, and the water would be as motionless as a
mirror. It was so fre^, so cool! The dew would be falling

2l6

on the grass, the lights begin twinkling in the cottages on the
bank, and they would be driving the cattle home. Then I
could creep out to look at my lake, and I would forget every-
thing, looking at it. At the water's edge, the fishermen would
have a faggot burning and the hght would be reflected far,
far, over the water. The sky was so cold and blue, with streaks
of fiery red along the horizon, and the streaks kept growing
paler and paler; the moon would rise; the air so resonant that
if a frightened bird fluttered, or a reed stirred in the faint
breeze, or a fish splashed in the water, ever3^thing could be
heard. A white steam, thin and transparent, rises up over the
blue water: the distsmce darkens; everything seems drowned
in the mist, while close by it all stands out so sharply, as
though cut by a chisel, the boat, the banks, the islands; the
tub thrown away and forgotten floats in the water close to the
bank, the willow branch hangs with its yellow leaves tangled
in the reeds, a belated gull flies up, then dives into the cold
water, flies up again and is lost in the mist — while I gaze and
listen. How lovely, how marvellous it was to me 1 and I was a
child, almost a baby. . . .

I was so fond of the autumn, the late autumn when they
were carrjdng the harvest, fimishing all the labours of the year,
when the peasants began gathering together in their cottages
in the evening, when they were all expecting winter. Then it
kept growing darker. The yellow leaves strewed the paths at
the edges of the bare forest while the forest grew bluer and
darker — especiaUy at evening when a damp mist fell and the
trees glimmered in the mist like giants, like terrible misshapen
phantoms. If one were late out for a walk, dropped behind the
others, how one hurried on alone — ^it was dreadful! One
trembled like a leaf and kept thinking that in another minute
someone terrible would peep out from behind that hollow tree;
meanwhile the wind would rush through the woods, roaring
and whistling, howling so plaintively, tearing a crowd of leaves
from a withered twig, whirling them in the air, and with wild,
shrill cries the birds would fly after them in a great, noisy
flock, so that the sky would be all covered and darkened with
them. One feels frightened, and then, just as though one heard
someone speaking — some voice — as though someone whispered :
"Run, run, child, don't be late; it will be dreadful here soon;
run, child!" — ^with a thrill of horror at one's heart one would
run till one was out of breath. One would reach home, breath-
less; there it was all noise and gaiety; all of us children had

217

some work given to us to do, shelling peas or shaking out
poppy seeds. The damp wood crackles in the stove. Cheer-
fully mother looks after our cheerful work; our old nurse,
Ulyana, tells us stories about old times or terrible tales of
wizards and dead bodies. We children squeeze up to one
another with smiles on our lips. Then suddenly we are all
silent . , . Oh! a noise as though someone were knocking—
it was nothing; it was old Frolovna's spindle; how we laughedl
Then at night we would lie awake for hours, we had such
fearful dreams. One would wake and not dare to stir, and
lie shivering under the quilt till daybreak. In the morning one
would get up, fresh as a flower. One would look out of the
window; all the country would be covered with frost, the thin
hoeirfrost of autumn would be hanging on the bare boughs, the
lake would be covered with ice, Qiin as a leaf, a white mist
would be rising over it, the birds would be calling merrily, the
sun would light up everything with its brilliant rays and break
the thin ice like glass. It was so bright, so shining, so gay,
the fire would be crackUng in the stove again, we would sit
down round the samovar while our black dog, Polkan, numb
with cold from the night, would peep in at the window with a
friendly wag of his tail. A peasant would ride by the window
on his good horse to fetch wood from the forest. Everyone
was so gay, so happy ! . . . There were masses and masses of
com stored up in the threshing-bams; the huge, huge stacks
covered with straw shone golden in the sun, a comforting
sight! And all are cahn and joyful. God has blessed us afl
with the harvest; they all know they will have bread for the
winter; the peasant knows that his wife and children will have
food to eat; and so there is no end to the singing of the girls
and their dances and games in the evening, and on the Saints'
days! All pray in the house of God with grateful tears! Oh I
what a golden, golden age was my childhood! . . .

Here I am crying like a child, carried away by my
reminiscences. I remembered it all so vividly, so vividly, all
the past stood out so brightly before me, and the present is
so dim, so dark ! . . . How will it end, how will it all end?
Do you know I have a sort of conviction, a feeling of certainly,
that I shall die this autumn. I am very, very ill. I often
think about dying, but still I don't want to die like this, to lie
in the earth here. Perhaps I shall be laid up as I was in the
spring; I've not fully recovered from that illness yet. I am
feeling very dreary just now. Fedora has gone off somewhere

2l8

for the whole day and I am sitting alone. And for some time
now I've been afraid of being left alone; I always feel as
though there were someone else in the room, that someone
is talking to me; especially when I begin dreaming about some-
thing and suddenly wake up from my brooding, then I feel
frightened. That is why I've written you such a long letter;
it goes off when I write. Good-bye; I finish my letter because
I have neither time nor paper for more. Of the money from
pawning my dress and my hat I have only one rouble in silver
left. You have given the landlady two roubles in silver; that's
very good. She will keep quiet now for a time.

You must improve your clothes somehow. Good-bye, I'm
so tired; I don't know why I am growing so feeble. The least
work exhausts me. If I do get work, how am I to work? It
is that thought that's killing me.

V.D.

September 5.
My darling Varinka,

I have received a great number of impressions this morn-
ing, my angel. To begin with I had a headache all day. To
freshen myself up a bit I went for a walk along Fontanka. It
was such a damp, dark evening. By six o'clock it was getting
dusk — that is what we are coming to now. It was not raining
but there was mist equal to a good rain. There were broad,
long stretches of storm-cloud across the sky. There were
masses of people walking along the canal bank, and, as ill-luck
would have it, the people had such horrible depressing faces,
drunken peasants, snub-nosed Finnish women, in high boots
with nothing on their heads, workmen, cab-drivers, people hke
me out on some errand, boys, a carpenter's apprentice in a
striped dressing-gown, thin and wasted-looking, with his face
bathed in smutty oil, and a lock in his hand; a discharged
soldier seven feet high waiting for somebody to buy a pen-knife
or a bronze ring from him. That was the sort of crowd. It
seems it was an hour when no other sort of people could be
about. Fontanka is a canal for traffic ! Such a mass of barges
that one wonders how there can be room for them all ! On the
bridges there are women sitting with wet gingerbread and rotten
apples, and they all of them looked so muddy, so drenched.
It's dreary walking along Fontanka! The wet granite under
one's feet, with tall, black, sooty houses on both sides. Fog

219 H

underfoot and fog overhead. How dark and melancholy it was
this evening!

When I went back to Gorohovoy Street it Wcis already getting
dark and they had begun lighting the gas. I have not been in
Gorohovoy Street for quite a long while, J haven't happened to
go there. It's a noisy street! What shops, what magnificent
establishments; everything is simply shining and resjdendent;
materials, flowers mider glass, hats of all sorts with ribbons.
One would fancy they were all displayed as a show — ^but no:
you know there are people who buy all those things and present
them to their wives. It's a wealthy street 1 There cire a great
many German bakers in Gorohovoy Street, so they must be a
very prosperous set of people, too. What numbers of carriages
roll by every minute; I wonder the paving is not worn out!
Such gorgeous equipages, windows shining like mirrors, silk
and velvet inside, and aristocratic footmen wearing epaulettes
and carrying a sword; I glanced into all the carriages, there
were always ladies in them dressed up to the nines, perhaps
countesses and princesses. No doubt it was the hour when they
were all hastening to balls and assemblies. It would be interest-
ing to get a closer view of princesses and ladies of rank in
general; it must be very nice; I have never seen them; except
just cis to-day, a passing glance at their carriages. I thought
of you then. Ah, my darling, my own I When I think of you
my heart begins aching! Why are you so imlucky, my
Varinka? You are every bit as good as any of them. You
are good, lovely, well-educated — why has sucJi a cruel fortune
fallen to your lot? Why does it happen that a good man is
left forlorn and forsaken, while happiness seems thrust upon
another? I know, I know, my dear, that it's wrong to tlunk
that, that it is free-thinking; but to speak honestly, to speak
the whole truth, why is it fate, like a raven, croaks good
fortune for one still unborn, while another begins life in the
orphan asylum? And you know it often happens that Ivan
the fool is favoured by fortune. "You, Ivan the fool, rummage
in the family money bags, eat, drink and be merry, while you,
So-and-so, can lick your Ups. That's all you are fit for, you,
brother So-and-so!" It's a sin, my darUng, it's a sin to think
Uke that, but sometimes one cannot help sin creeping into one's
heart. You ought to be driving in such a carriage, my own
little dearie. Generals should be craving the favour of a glance
from you — not the hkes of us; you ought to be dressed in silk
and gold, instead of a little old Hnen gown. You would not

220

be a thin, delicate little thing, as you are now, but like a little
sugar figure, fresh, plump and rosy. And then, I should be
happy simply to look in at you from the street through the
brightly lighted windows; simply to see your shadow. The
thought that you were happy and gay, my pretty httle bird,
would be enough to make me gay, too. But as it is, it is not
enough that spiteful people have ruined you, a worthless
profligate wretch goes and insults you. Because his coat hangs
smartly on him, because he stares at you from a golden eye-
glass, the shameless fellow, he can do what he likes, and one
must lisjen to what he saj^ indulgently, however unseemly it
is! Wait a bit — ^is it really so, my pretty gentlemen? And
why is all this? Because you are an orphan, because you
are defenceless, because you have no powerful friend to help
and protect you. And what can one call people who are ready
to insult an orpheui? They are worthless beasts, not men;
simply trash. They are mere ciphers and have no real
existence, of that I am convinced. That's what they are like,
these people ! And to my thinking, my own, the hurdy-gurdy
man I met to-day in Gorohovoy Street is more worthy of
respect than they are. He goes about the whole day long,
hoping to get some wretched spare farthing for food, but he
is his own master, he does earn his own living. He won't ask
for charity; but he works like a machine wound up to give
pleasure. "Here," he says, "I do what I can to give pleasure."
He's a beggar, he's a beggar, it is true, he's a beggar all the
same, but he's an honourable beggar; he is cold and weary,
but still he works; though it's in his own way, still he works.
And there are many honest men, my darling, who, though
they earn very little in proportion to the amount and usefulness
of their work, yet they bow down to no one and buy their bread
of no one. Here I am just like that hurdy-gurdy man — ,that
is, not at all like him. But in my own sense, in an honour-
able and aristocratic sense, just as he does, to the best of my
abilities, I work as I can. That's enough atxjut me, it's neither
here nor there.

I speak of that hurdy-gurdy, my darling, because it has
happened that I have felt my poverty twice as much to-day. I
stopped to look at the hurdy-gurdy man. I was in such a mood
that I stopped to distract my thoughts. I was standing there,
and also two cab-drivers, a woman of some sort, and a little
girl, such a grubby little thing. The hurdy-gurdy man stopped
before the windows of a house. I noticed a little boy about

221

ten years old; he would have been pretty, but he looked so
ill, so frail, with hardly anything but his shirt on and almost
barefoot, with his mouth open; he was listening to the music-
like a child! He watched the German's dolls dancing, while
his own hands and feet were numb with cold; he shivered and
nibbled the edge of his sleeve. I noticed that he had a bit of
paper of some sort in his hands. A gentleman passed and flung
the hurdy-gurdy man some small coin, which fell straight into
the box in a little garden in which the toy Frenchman was
dancing with the ladies. At the cUnk of the coin the boy started,
looked round and evidently thought that I had given the
money. He ran up to me, his Uttle hands trembling, his little
voice trembUng, he held the paper out to me and said, "A
letter." I opened the letter; well, it was the usual thing, say-
ing: "Kind gentleman, a mother's dying with three (iildren
hungry, so help us now, and as I am dying I will pray for
you, my benefactor, in the next world for not forgetting my
babes now." Well, what of it? — one could see what it meant,
an everyday matter, but what could I give him? Well, I gave
him nothing, and how sorry I was I TTie boy was poor, blue
with cold, perhaps hungry, too, and not lying, smrely he was
not lying, I know that for certain. But what is wrong is that
these horrid mothers don't take care of their children and send
them out half naked in the cold to beg. Maybe she's a weak-
willed, silly woman; and there's no one, maybe, to do anything
for her, so she simply sits with her legs tucked under her,
maybe she's really iU. Well, anjTway, she should apply in the
proper quarter. Though, maybe, she's a cheat and sends a
hungry, delicate child out on purpose to deceive people, and
makes him ill. And what sort of training is it for a poor boy?
It simply hardens his heart, he runs about begging, people
pass and have no time for Mm. Their hearts are stony, their
words are cruel. "Get away, go along, you are naughty!"
that is what he hears from everyone, and the child's heart
grows hard, and in vain the poor Uttle frightened boy shivers
with cold like a fledgUng faUen out of a broken nest. His hands
and feet are frozen, he gasps for breath. The next thing he
is coughing, before long disease, Uke an unclean reptile, creeps
into his bosom and death is standing over him in some dark
corner, no help, no escape, and that's his hfe! That is what
life is hke sometimes! Oh, Varinka, it's wretched to hear "for
Christ's sake," and to pass by and give nothing, telling him
"God will provide." Sometimes "for Christ's sake" is all right

222

(it's not always the same, you know, Varinka), sometimes it's
a long, drawling, habitual, practised, regular beggar's whine;
it's not so painful to refuse one like that; he's an old hand, a
beggar by profession. He's accustomed to it, one thinks; he
can cope with it and knows how to cope with it. Sometimes
"for Christ's sake" sounds unaccustomed, rude, terrible — as
to-day, when I was taking the letter from the boy, a man stand-
ing close to the fence, not begging from everyone, said to me :
"Give us a halfpenny, sir, for Christ's sake," and in such a
harsh, jerky voice that I started with a horrible feeling and did
not give him a halfpenny, I hadn't one. Rich people don't
like the poor to complain aloud of their harsh lot, they say
they disturb them, they are troublesome ! Yes, indeed, poverty
is always troublesome; maybe their hungry groans hinder the
rich from sleeping!

To make a confession, my own, I began to describe all this
to you partly to relieve my heart but chiefly to give you an
example of the fine style of my composition, for you have no
doubt noticed yourself, my dear girl, that of late my style has
been forming, but such a depression came over me that I began
to pity my feelings to the depth of my soul, and though I
know, my dear, tiiat one gets no good by self-pity, yet one
must do oneself justice in some way, and often, my own, for
no reason whatever, one literally annihilates oneself, makes
oneself of no account, and not worth a straw. And perhaps
that is why it happens that I am panic-stricken and persecuted
like that poor boy who asked me for alms. Now I will tell
you, by way of instance and illustration, Varinka; listen:
hunying to the of&ce early in the morning, my own, I some-
times look at the town, how it wakes, gets up, begins smoking,
hurrying with life, resounding — sometimes you feel so smadl
before such a sight that it is as though someone had given
you a flip on your intrusive nose and you creep along your
way noiseless as water, and hiunble as grass, and hold your
peace 1 Now just look into it and see what is going on in tiiose
great, black, smutty buildings. Get to the bottom of that and
Sien judge whether one was right to abuse oneself for no reason
and to be reduced to undignified mortification. Note, Varinka,
that I am speaking figuratively, not in a literal sense. But
let us look what is going on in those houses. There, in some
smoky comer, in some damp hole, which, through poverty,
passes as a lodging, some workman wakes up from his sleep;
and all night he has been dreaming of boots, for instance,

223

which he had accidentally slit the day before, as though a
man ought to dream of such nonsense! But he's an artisan,
he's a shoemaker; it's excusable for him to think of nothing
but his ovm subject. His children are crying and his wife is
hungry; and it's not only shoemakers who get up in the mom-
ing like that, my own — that would not matter, and would not
be worth writing about, but this is the point, Varinka: close
by in the same house, in a storey higher or lower, a wealthy
man in his gilded apartments dreams at night, it may be,
of those same boots, that is, boots in a different manner, in a
different sense, but still boots, for in the sense I am using the
word, Varinka, everyone of us is a bit of a shoemaker, my
darling; and that would not matter, only it's a pity there is
no one at that wealthy person's side, no man who could
whisper in his ear: "Come, give over thinking of such things,
thinking of nothing but yourself, living for nothing but your-
self; your children are healthy, your wife is not begging for
food. Look about you, can't you see some object more noble
to worry about than your boots?" That's what I wanted to
say to you in a figurative way, Varinka. Perhaps it's too free
a thought, my own, but sometimes one has that thought, some-
times it comes to one and one cannot help its bursting out from
one's heart in warm language. And so it seems there was no
reason to make oneself so cheap, and to be scared by mere
noise and uproar. I will conclude by saying, Varinka, that
perhaps you think what I am saying is unjust, or that I'm
suffering from a fit of the spleen, or that I have copied this out
of some book. No, my dear girl, you must dismiss that idea,
it is not that; I abominate injustice, I am not suffering from
spleen, and I've not copied an}dhing out of a book — so there.

I went home in a melancholy frame of mind; I sat down to
the table and heated my teapot to have a glass of two of tea.
Suddenly I saw coming towards me Gorshkov, our poor lodger.
I had noticed in the morning that he kept hanging about round
the other lodgers, and trying to approach me. And I may
say, in passing, Varinka, that they Uve ever so much worse
than I do. Yes, indeed, he has a wife and children I So that
if I were in his place I don't know what I should do. Well,
my Gorshkov comes up to me, bows to me, a running tear as
always on his eyelashes, he scrapes with his foot and can't utter
a word. I made him sit down on a chair — ^it was a broken one,
it is true, but there was no other. I offered him some tea. He
refused from politeness, refused for a long time, but at last he

224

took a glass. He would have drunk it without sugar, began
apologising again, when I tried to persuade him that he must
have sugar; he argued for a long time, kept refusing, but at
last put the very smallest lump of sugar in his glass, and begaii
declaring that his tea was extremely sweet. Oh, to what degra-
dation poverty does reduce people! "Well, my good friend,
what is it?" I said. "Well, it is Uke this, Makar Alexyevitch,
my benefactor," he said, "show the mercy of the Lord, come to
the help of my unhappy family; my wife and children have
nothing to eat; think what it is for me, their father," said he.
I tried to speaJc, but he interrupted me. "I am afraid of every-
one here, Makar Alexyevitch — ^that is, not exactly afraid but as
it were ashamed with them; they are all proud and haughty
people. I would not have troubled you, my benefactor, I know
that you have been in dif&culties yourself, I know you can't
give me much, but do lend me a trifle, and I make bold to ask
you," said he, "because I know your kind heart. I know that
you are in need yourself, that you know what trouble is now,
and so your heart feels compassion." He ended by saying,
"Forgive my boldness and unmannerliness, Makar Alexye-
vitch." I answered him that I should be heartily glad, but that
I had nothing, absolutely nothing. "Makar Alexyevitch, sir,"
said he, "I am not asking for much, but you see it is like this —
(then he flushed crimson) — ^my wife, my children, hungry — ^if
only a ten-kopeck piece." Well, it sent a twinge to my heart.
Why, I thought, they are worse off than I, even. Twenty
kopecks was all I had left, and I was reckoning on it. I meant
to spend it next day on my most pressing needs.

"No, my dear fellow, I can't, it is like this," I said.

"Makar Alexyevitch, my dear soul, what you like," he said,
"if it is only ten kopecks."

Well, I took my twenty kopecks out of my box, Varinka,
and gave it him; it's a good deed an3rway! Ah! poverty!
I had a good talk with him : "Why, how is it, my good soul,"
I said, "that you are in such want and yet you rent a room for
five silver roubles?" He explained to me that he had taken
it six months before and paid for it six months in advance;
and since then circumstances had been such that the poor
fellow does not know which way to turn. He expected his case
would be over by this time. It's an unpleasant business. You
see, Varinka, he has to answer for something before the court,
he is mixed up in a case with a merchant who swindled the
government over a contract; the cheat was discovered and the

225

merchant was arrested and he's managed to implicate
Gorshkov, who had something to do with it, too. But in reality
Gorshkov was only guilty of negligence, of injudieiousness and
unpardonable disregard of the interests of government. The
case has been going on for some years. Gorshkov has had to
face all sorts of difficulties.

"I'm not guilty, not in the least guilty of the dishonesty
attributed to me," said Gorshkov; "I am not guilty of
swindling and robbery."

This case has thrown a slur on his character; he has been
turned out of the service, and though he has not been found
guilty of any legal crime, yet, till he has completely cleared
himself he cannot recover from the merchant a considerable
sum of money due to him which is now the subject of dispute
before the courts. I beUeve him, but the court won't take his
word for it; the case is all in such a coil and a tangle that it
would take a hundred years to unravel it. As soon as they
untie one knot the merdiant brings forward another and then
another. I feel the deepest sympathy for Gorshkov, my own,
I am very sorry for him. The man's out of work, he won't
be taken anjnvhere without a character; all they had saved has
been spent on food, the case is complicated and, meanwhile,
they have had to live, and meanwhile, apropos of nothing and
most inappropriately, a baby has been bom, and that is an
expense; his son fell ill — expense; died — expense; his wife is
ill; he's afflicted with some disease of long standing — ^in fact,
he has suffered, he has suffered to the utmost; he says, how-
ever, that he is expecting a favourable conclusion to his
business in a day or two and that there is no doubt of it now.
I am sorry for him, I am sorry for him; I am very sorry for
him, Varinka. I was kind to him, he's a poor lost, scared
creature; he needs a friend so I was kind to him. Well, good-
bye, my dear one, Christ be with you, keep well. My darling!
when I think of you it's like laying a salve on my sore heart.
And though I suffer for you, yet it eases my heart to sufier
for you.

Your true friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 9.
My Darling, Varvara Alexyevna,

I am writing to you almost beside myself. I have been
thoroughly upset by a terrible incident. My head is going

226

round. Ah, my own, what a thing I have to tell you nowl
This we did not foresee. No, I don't believe that I did not
foresee it; I did foresee it all. I had a presentiment of it in
my heart. I even dreamed of something of the kind a day or
two ago.

This is what happened! I will write to you regardless of
style, just as God puts it into my heart. I went to the office
to-day. I went in, I sat down, I began writing. And you
must know, Varinka, that I was writing yesterday too. Well,
this is how it was: Timofey Ivanovitch came up to me and
was pleased to explain to me in person, "The document is
wanted in a hurry," said he. "Copy it very clearly as quickly
as possible and carefully, Makar Alexyevitch," he said; "it
goes to be signed to-day." I must observe, my angel, that I
was not mj^self yesterday, I could not bear the sight of any-
thing; such a mood of sadness and depression had come over
me! It was cold in my heart and dark in my soul, you were
in my mind all the while, my httle dearie. But I set to work
to copy it; I copied it clearly, legibly, only — I really don't
know how to explain it — whether the devil himself muddled
me, or whether it was ordained by some secret decree of
destiny, or simply it had to be — ^but I left out a whole line,
goodness knows what sense it made, it simply made none at
all. They were late with the document yesterday and only took
it to his Excellency to be signed to-day. I turned up this morn-
ing at the usual hour as though nothing had happened and
settled myself beside Emelyan Ivanovitch. I must observe,
my own, that of late I have been more abashed and ill at ease
than ever. Of late I have given up looking at anyone. If I hear
so much as a chair creak I feel more dead than alive. That
is just how it was to-day, I sat down like a hedgehog crouched
up and shrinking into myself, so that Efim Akimovitch (there
never was such a fellow for teasing) said in the hearing of
all: "Why are you sitting like a picture of misery, Makar
Alexyevitch?" And he made such a grimace that everyone
sitting near him and me went off into roars of laughter, and
at my expense of course. And they went on and on. I put
my hands over my ears, and screwed up my eyes, I sat with-
out stirring. That's what I always do; they leave off the
sooner. Suddenly I heard a noise, a fuss and a bustle; I heard
— did not my ears deceive me? — ^they were mentioning me,
asking for me, calling Dyevushkin. My heart began shudder-
ing within me, and I don't know myself why I was so

227 B*

frightened; I only know I was panic-stricken as I had never
been before in my life. I sat rooted to my chair — as though
there were nothing the matter, as though it were not I. But they
began getting nearer and nearer. And at last, close to my ear,
they were calling, "DyevushMn, Dyevushkin! Where is
Dyevushkin?" I raised my eyes: Yevstafy Ivanovitch stood
before me; he said: "Makar Alexyevitch, make haste to his
Excellency! You've made a mistake in that document!"
That was all he said, but it was enough; enough had been said,
hadn't it, Varinka? Half dead, frozen with terror, not know-
ing what I was doing, I went— why, I was more dead than
ahve. I was led through one room, through a second, through
a third, to his Excellency's study. I was in his presence! I
can give you no exact accoimt of what my thoughts were then.
I saw his Excellency standing up, they were all standing round
him. I believe I did not bow, I forgot. I was so flustered that
my lips were trembUng, my legs were trembling. And I had
reason to be, my dear girl I To begin with, I was ashamed; I
glanced into the looking-glass on the right hand and what I saw
there was enough to send one out of one's mind. And in the
second place, I had always tried to behave as if there were
no such person in the world. So that his Excellency could
hardly have been aware of my existence. Perhaps he may
have heard casually that there was a clerk called Dyevushkin
in the office, but he had never gone into the matter more
closely.

He began, angrily: "What were you about, sir? Where
were your eyes? llie copy was wanted; it was wanted in a
hurry, and you spoil it."

At this point, his Excellency turned to Yevstafy Ivanovitch.
I could only catch a word here and there: "Negligence! Care-
lessness! You will get us into difficulties!" I would have
opened my mouth to say something. I wanted to beg for for-
giveness, but I could not; I wanted to run away, but dared
not attempt it, and then . . . then, Varinka, something hap-
pened so awful that I can hardly hold my pen, for shame,
even now. A button — the devil take the button — which was
hanging by a thread on my uniform — suddenly flew off,
bounced on the floor (I must have caught hold of it
accidentally) with a jingle, the damned thing, and rolled
straight to his Excellency's feet, and that in the midst of a
profound silence! And that was my only justification, my
sole apology, my only answer, all that I had to say to his

228

Excellency 1 What followed was awful. His Excellency's
attention was at once turned to my appearance and my attire.
I rranembered what I had seen in the looking-glass; I flew to
catch the button! Some idiocy possessed mel I bent down,
I tried to pick up the button — ^it twirled and rolled, I couldn't
pick it up — in fact, I distinguished myself by my agihty. Then
I felt that my last faculties were deserting me, that every-
thing, everything was lost, my whole reputation was lost, my
dignity as a man was lost, and then, apropos of nothing, I
had the voices of Teresa and Faldoni ringing in my ears. At
last I picked up the button, stood up and drew myself erect,
and if I were a fool I might at least have stood quietly with
my hands at my sides! But not a bit of it. I began fitting
the button to the torn threads as though it might hang on, and
I actually smiled, actually smiled. His Excellency turned away
at first, then he glanced at me again — I heard him say to Yev-
stafy Ivanovitch: "How is this? . . . Look at himl . . . What
is he? . . . What sort of mcin? . . ." Ah, my own, think of
that! "What is he?" and, "what sort of man?" I had dis-
tinguished myself! I heard Yevstafy Ivanovitch say: "No
note against him, no note against him for anjrthing, behaviour
excellent, salary in accordance with his grade ..." "Well,
assist him in some way, let him have something in advance,"
sa3« his Excellency. . . . "But he has had an advance," he
said; "he has had his salary in advance for such and such a
time. He is apparently in difficulties, but his conduct is good,
and there is no note, there never has been a note against him."

My angel, I was burning, burning in the fires of hell 1 I weis
dying. . . .

"Well," said his Excellency, "make haste and copy it again;
Dyevushkin, come here, copy it over again without a
mistake; and hsten ..." Here his Excellency turned to the
others, gave them various instructions and they all went away.
As soon as they had gone, his Excellency hurriedly took out
his notebook and from it took a hundred-rouble note. "Here,"
said he, "take it as you like, so far as I can help you, take
it . . ." and he thrust it into my hand. I trembled, my angel,
my whole soul was quivering; I don't know what happened to
me, I tried to seize his hand to kiss it, but he flushed crimson,
my darling, and — ^here I am not departing one hair's breadth
from the truth, my own — he took my unworthy hand and shook
it, just took it and shook it, as though I had been his equal, as
though I had been just such a General as himself. "You can

229

go," he said; "whatever I can do for you . . . don't make
mistakes, but there, no great harm done this time."

Now Varinka, this is what I have decided. I beg you and
Fedora, and if I had any children I should bid them, to pray
every day and all our lives for his Excellency as they would not
pray for their own father! I will say more, my dear, and I
say it solemnly — ^pay attention, Varinka — I swear that however
cast down I was and afflicted in the bitterest days of our mis-
fortunes, looking at you, at your poverty, and at myself, my
degradation and my uselessness, in spite of all that, I swear
that the hundred roubles is not as much to me as that his Excel-
lency deigned to shake hands with me, a straw, a worthless
drunkard ! By that he has restored me to myself, by that action
he has lifted up my spirit, has made my Ufe sweeter for ever,
and I am firmly persuaded that, however sinful I may be before
the Almighty, yet my prayers for the happiness cind prosperity
of his Excellency will reach His Throne! . . .

My darling ! I am dreadfully upset, dreadfully excited now,
my heart is beating as though it would burst out of my breast,
and I feel, as it were, weak all over.

I am sending you forty-five roubles; I am giving the landlady
twenty and leaving thirty-five for ms^self. For twenty I can
put my wardrobe in order, and I shall have fifteen left to go on
with. But just now all the impressions of the morning have
shaken my whole being, I am going to lie down. I am at peace,
quite at peace, though; only there is an ache in my heart and
deep down within me I feel my soul quivering, trembling,
stirring.

I am coming to see you : but now I am simply drunk with

all these sensations God sees all, my Varinka, my

priceless darUng!

Your worthy friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

September lo.
My dear Makar Alexyevitch,

I am unutterably delighted at your happiness and fully
appreciate the goodness of your chief, my friend. So now you
will have a little respite from trouble! But, for God's sake,
don't waste your money again. Live quietly and as frugally
as possible, and from to-day begin to put by a little that mis-
fortune may not find you unprepared again. For goodness'
sake don't worry about us. Fedora smd I will get along some-

230

how. Why have you sent us so much money, Makar Alexye-
vitch? We don't need it at all. We are satisfied with what we
have. It is trae we shall soon want money for moving from this
lodging, but Fedora is hoping to be repaid an old debt that has
been owing for years. I will keep twenty roubles, however, in
case of extreme necessity. The rest I send you back. Please
take care of your money, Makar Alexyevitch. Good-bye. Be
at peace now, keep well and happy. I would write more to you,
but I feel dreadfully tired; yesterday I did not get up all day.
You do well to promise to come. Do come and see me, please,
Makar Alexyevitch.

V. D.

September ii.
My dear Varvara Alexyevna,

I beseech you, my own, not to part from me now, now
when I am quite happy and contented with everything. My
darling! Don't listen to Fedora and I will do anjdihing you
like; I shall behave well if only from respect to his Excellency.
I will behave well and carefiijly; we will write to each other
happy letters again, we will confide in each other our thoughts,
our jo}^, our cares, if we have any cares; we will live together
in happiness and concord. We'U study literature . . . My
angel ! My whole fate has changed and everything has changed
for the better. The landlady has become more amenable.
Teresa is more sensible, even Faldoni has become prompter. I
have made it up with Ratazyaev. In my joy I went to him
of myself. He's really a good fellow, Varinka, and all the harm
that was said of him was nonsense. I have discovered that it
was all an abominable slander. He had no idea whatever of
describing us. He read me a new work of his. And as for his
calling me a Lovelace, that was not an insulting or abusive
name; he explained it to me. The word is taken straight from
a foreign source and means a clever fellow, and to express it
more elegantly, in a literary fashion, it means a young man
you must be on the lookout with, you see, and nothing of that
sort. It was an innocent jest, my angel! I'm an ignoramus
and in my foolishness I was offended. In fact, it is I who
apologised to him now. . . . And the weather is so wonderful
to-day, Varinka, so fine. It is true there was a slight frost this
morning, as though it had been sifted through a sieve. It was
nothing. It only made the air a little fresher. I went to buy
some boots, and I bought some wonderful boots. I walked

231

along the Nevsky. I read the Bee. Why I I am forgetting to
tell you the principal thing.

It was this, do you see.

This morning I talked to Emelyan Ivanovitch and to Axentey
Mihalovitch about his Excellency. Yes, Varinka, I'm not the
only one he has treated so graciously. I am not the only one
he has befriended, and he is known to all the world for the good-
ness of his heart. His praises are sung in very many quarters,
and tears of gratitude are shed. An orphan girl was brought up
in his house. He gave her a dowry and married her to a man in
a good position, to a clerk on special commissions, who was
in attendance on his Excellency. He installed a son of a widow
in some office, and has done a great many other acts of kind-
ness. I thought it my duty at that point to add my mite and
described his Excellency's action in the hearing of all; I told
them all and concealed nothing. I put my pride in my pocket,
as though pride or dignity mattered in a case like that. So I
told it aloud — ^to do glory to the good deeds of his Excellency I
I spoke enthusiastically, I spoke with warmth, I did not blush,
on the contrary, I was p>roud that I had such a story to tell.
I told them about everything (only I was judiciously silent
about you, Varinka), about my landlady, about Faldoni, about
Ratazyaev, about my boots and about Markov — I told them
everything. Some of them laughed a little, in fact, they all
laughed a Uttle. Probably they found something funny in my
appearance, or it may have been about my boots — ^yes, it must
have been about my boots. They could not have done it with
any bad intention. It was nothiiig, just youthfulness, or per-
haps because they are well-to-do people, but they could not jeer
at what I said with any bad, evil intention. That is, what I said
about his Excellency — ^that they could not do. Could they,
Varinka?

I still can't get over it, my darling. The whole incident has
so overwhelmed me! Have you got any firewood? Don't
catch cold, Varinka; you can so easUy catch cold. Ah, my
own precious, you crush me with your sad thoughts. I pray
to God, how I pray to Him for you, my dearie I For instance,
have you got woollen stockings, and other warm underclothing?
Mind, my darling, if you need anything, for God's sake don't
wound your old friend, come straight to me. Now our bad
times are over. Don't be anxious about me. Everything is
so bright, so happy in the future I

It was a sad time, Varinka! But there, no matter, it's pastl

232

Years will pass and we shall sigh for that time. I remember
my yomig days. Why, I often hadn't a farthing I I was cold
and hungry, but light-hearted, that was all. In the morning I
would walk along the Nevsky, see a pretty little face and be
happy all day. It was a splendid, splendid time, my darUng !
It is nice to be alive, Varinkal Especially in Petersburg. I
repented with tears in my eyes 3resterday, and prayed to the
Lord God to forgive me all my sins in that sad time : my repin-
ing, my liberal ideas, my drinking and despair. I remembered
you with emotion in my prayers. You were my only support,
Vaiinka, you were my only comfort, you cheered me on my
way with counsel and good advice. I can never forget that,
dear one. I have kissed all your letters to-day, my darling!
Well, good-bye, my precious. They say that somewhere near
here there is a sale of clothing. So I will make inquiries a little.
Good-bye, my angel. Good-bye!

Your deeply devoted,

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 15.
Dear Makar Alexyevitch,

I feel dreadfully upset. Listen what has happened here.
I foresee something momentous. Judge yourself, my precious
friend; Mr. Bykov is in Petersburg, Fedora met him. He
was driving, he ordered the cab to stop, went up to Fedora
himself and began asking where she was living. At first she
would not tell him. Then he said, laughing, that he knew who
was living with her. (Evidently Aima Fyodorovna had told
him all about it.) Then Fedora could not contain herself and
began upbraiding him on the spot, in the street, reproaching
him, telhng him he was an immoral man and the cause of aU
my troubles. He answered, that one who has not a halfpenny
is bound to have misfortunes. Fedora answered that I might
have been able to earn my own living, that I might have been
married or else have had some situation, but that now my
happiness was wrecked for ever and that I was ill besides, and
would not live long. To this he answered that I was still yoimg,
that I had still a lot of nonsense in my head and that my virtues
were getting a Uttle tarnished (his words). Fedora and I thought
he did not know our lodging when suddenly, yesterday, just
after I had gone out to buy some things in the Gostiny Dvor he
walked into our room. I believe he did not want to find me at
home. He questioned Fedora at length concerning our manner

233

of life, examined everything we had; he looked at my work; at
last asked, "Who is this clerk you have made friends with?"
At that moment you walked across the yard; Fedora pointed to
you; he glanced and laughed; Fedora begged him to go away,
told him that I was unwell, as it was, from grieving, and that
to see him in our room would be very distasteful to me. He was
silent for a while; said that he had just looked in with no object
and tried to give Fedora twenty-five roubles; she, of course, did
not take it.

What can it mean? What has he come to see us for? I
cannot understand where he has found out all about us ! I am
lost in conjecture. Fedora says that Axinya, her sister-in-law,
who comes to see us, is friendly with Nastasya the laundress,
and Nastas5^'s cousin is a porter in the office in which a friend
of Anna Fyodorovna's nephew is serving. So has not, perhaps,
some ill-natured gossip crept round? But it is very possible that
Fedora is mistaken; we don't know what to think Is it possible
he will come to us again! The mere thought of it terrifies me!
When Fedora told me all about it yesterday, I was so frightened
that I almost fainted with terror! What more does he want?
I don't want to know him now ! What does he want with me,
poor me? Oh! I am in such terror now, I keep expecting
Bykov to walk in every minute. What will happen to me,
what more has fate in store for me? For Christ's sake, come
and see me now, Makar Alexyevitch. Do come, for God's sake,
come.

September i8.
My darling Vaevara Alexyevna!

To-day an unutterably sad, quite unaccountable and
unexpected event has occurred here. Our poor Gorshkov (I
must tell you, Varinka) has had his character completely
cleared. The case was concluded some time ago and to-day he
went to hear the final judgment. The case ended very happily
for him. He was fully exonerated of any blame for negligence
and carelessness. The merchant was condemned to pay him a
considerable sum of money, so that his financial position was
vastly improved and no stain left on his honour and things were
better all round — in fact, he won everything he could have
desired.

He came home at three o'clock this afternoon. He did not
look like himself, his face was white as a sheet, his lips quivered
and he kept smiling — he embraced his wife and children. We

234

all flocked to congratulate him. He was greatly touched by our
action, he bowed in all directions, shook hands with all of us
several times. It even seemed to me as though he were taller
and more erect, and no longer had that running tear in his eye.
He was in such excitement, poor fellow. He could not stand
still for two minutes: he picked up anjrthing he came across,
then dropped it again; and kept continually smiling and bowing,
sitting down, getting up and sitting down again. Goodness
knows what he said: "My honour, my honour, my good name,
my children," and that was how he kept talking ! He even shed
tears. Most of us were moved to tears, too; Ratazyaev clearly
wanted to cheer him up, and said, "What is honour, old man,
when one has nothing to eat? The money, the money's the
thing, old man, thajnk God for that!" and thereupon he
slapped him on the shoulder. It seemed to me that Gorshkov
was offended — not that he openly showed dissatisfaction, but
he looked rather strangely at Ratazyaev and took his hand off
his shoulder. And that had never happened before, Varinkal
But characters differ. Now I, for instance, should not have
stood on my dignity, at a time of such joy; why, my own, some-
times one is too liberal with one's bows and almost cringing
from nothing but excess of good-nature and soft-heartedness.
. . . However, no matter about me!

"Yes," he said, "the money is a good thing too, thank God,
thank God!" And then all the time we were with him he
kept repeating, "Thank God, thank God."

His wife ordered a rather nicer and more ample dinner. Our
landlady cooked for them herself. Our landlady is a good-
natured woman in a way. And until dinner-time Gorshkov
could not sit still in his seat. He went into the lodgers' rooms,
without waiting to be invited. He just went in, smiled, sat
down on the edge of a chair, said a word or two, or even said
nothing, and went away again. At the naval man's he even
took a hand at cards; they made up a game with him as fourth.
He played a little, made a muddle of it, playe'd three or four
rounds and threw down the cards. "No," he said, "you see, I
just looked in, I just looked in," and he went away from them.
He met me in the passage, took both my hands, looked me
straight in the face, but so strangely; then shook hands with
me and walked away, and kept smiling, but with a strange,
painful smile like a dead man. His wife was crying with joy;
everything was cheerful as though it were a hohday. They soon
had dinner. After dinner he said to his wife : "I tell you what,

235

my love, I'll lie down a little," and he went to his bed. He
called his little girl, put his hand on her head, and for a long
time he was stroking the child's head. Then he turned to his
wife again, "And what of Petinka? our Petya!" he said.
"Petinka?" . . . His wife crossed herself and answered that
he was dead. "Yes, yes, I know all about it. Petinka is now
in the Kingdom of Heaven." His wife saw that he was not
himself, that what had happened had completely upset him,
and she said to him, "You ought to have a nap, my love."
"Yes, very well, I will directly . . . just a Uttle," then he
turned away, lay still for a bit, then turned round, tried to say
something. His wife could not make out what he said, and
asked him, "What it is, my dear?" and he did not answer.
She waited a httle, "Well, he's asleep," she thought, and went
into the landlady's for an hour. An hour later she came back,
she saw her husband had not woken up and was not stirring.
She thought he was asleep, cind she sat down and began work-
ing at something. She said that for half an hour she was so
lost in musing that she did not know what she was thinking
about, all she can say is that she did not think of her husband.
But suddenly she was roused by the feehng of uneasiness, and
what struck her first of all was the death-like silence in the
room. . . . She looked at the bed and saw that her husband
was lying in the same position. She went up to him, pulled
down the quilt and looked at him — and he was already cold^
he was dead, my darling. Gorshkov was dead, he had died
suddenly, as though he had been killed by a thunder-bolt. And
why he died, God only knows. It was such a shock to me,
Varinka, that I can't get over it now. One can't beUeve that a
man could die so easily. He was such a poor, unlucky fellow,
that Gorshkov I And what a fate, what a fate ! His wife was
in tears and panic-stricken. The little girl crept away into a
corner. There is such a hubbub going on, they will hold a
post-mortem and inquest ... I can't tell you just what. But
the pity of it, oh, the pity of it I It's sad to think that in reality
one does not know the day or the hour . . . One dies so easily
for no reason. . . .

Your

Makae Dyevushkdj.

236

September 19.
Dear Vaevaea Alexyevna,

I hasten to infomi you, my dear, that Ratazyaev has
found me work with a writer. Someone came to him, and
brought him such a fat manuscript — ^thank God, a lot of work.
But it's so illegibly written that I don't know how to set to
work on it: they want it in a hurry. It's all written in such a
way that one does not understand it. . . . They have agreed to
pay forty kopecks the sixteen pages. I write you all this, my
own, because now I shall have extra money. And now, good-
bye, my darling, I have come straight from work.

Your faithful friend,

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 23.
My dear Friend, Makar Alexyevitch,

For three days I have not written you a word, and I have
had a great many anxieties and worries.

The day before yesterday Bykov was here. I was alone.
Fedora had gone off somewhere. I opened the door to him,
and was so frightened when I saw him that I could not move.
I felt that I turned pale. He walked in as he always does, with
a loud laugh, took a chair and sat down. For a long while I
could not recover myself. At last I sat down in the comer to
my work. He even left off laughing. I believe my appearance
impressed him. I have grown so thin of late, my eyes and
my cheeks are hollow, I was as white as a sheet ... it would
TMdly be hard for anyone to recognise me who had known me
a year ago. He looked long and intently at me; then at last
he began to be lively again, said something or other; I don't
know what I answered, and he lauded again. He stayed a
whole hour with me; talked to me a long time; asked me some
questions. At last just before leaving, he took me by the hand
and said (I write you it word for word) : "Varvara Alexyevitch,
between ourselves, be it said, your relation and my intimate
friend, Anna Fyodorovna, is a very nasty woman" (then he
used an unseemly word about her). "She led your cousin astray,
and ruined you. I behaved like a rascal in that case, too; but
after all, it's a thing that happens every day." Then he
laughed heartily. Then he observed that he was not great at
fine speeches, and that most of what he had to explain, about
which the obligations of gentlemanly feeling forebade hijn to be
silent, he had told me already, and that in brief words he would

237

come to the rest. Then he told me he was asking my hand in
marriage, that he thought it his duty to restore my good name,
that he was rich, that after the wedding he would take me away
to his estates in the steppes, that he wanted to go coursing hares
there; that he would never come back to Petersburg again,
because it was horrid in Petersburg; that he had here in Peters-
burg — as he expressed it — a good-for-nothing nephew whom he
had sworn to deprive of the estate, and it was just for that
reason in the hope of having legitimate heirs that he ^ught my
hand, that it was the chief cause of his courtship. Then he
observed that I was living in a very poor way : and it was no
wonder I was ill hving in such a slum; predicted that I should
certainly die if I stayed there another month; said that lodgings
in Petersburg were horrid, and finally asked me if I wanted
an57thing.

I was so overcome at his offer that, I don't know why, I
began crjdng. He took my tears for gratitude and told me he
had always been sure I was a good, feeling, and educated girl,
but that he had not been able to make up his mind to take
this step till he had found out about my present behaviour in
full detail. Then he asked me about you, said that he had
heard all about it, that you were a man of good principles,
that he did not want to be indebted to you and asked whether
five hundred roubles would be enou^ for all that you had done
for me. When I explained to him that what you had done for
me no money could repay, he said that it was all nonsense,
that that was all romantic stuff out of novels, that I was young
and read poetry, that novels were the ruin of young girls, that
books were destructive of moraJity emd that he could not bear
books of any sort, he advised me to wait till I was his age and
then talk about people. "Then," he added, "you will know
what men are like." Then he said I was to think over his offer
thproughly, that he would very much dislike it if I were to take
such an important step thoughtiessly; he added that thought-
lessness and impulsiveness were the ruin of inexperienced youth,
but that he quite hoped for a favourable answer from me, but
that in the opposite event, he should be forced to marry some
Moscow shopkeeper's daughter, "because," he said, "I have
sworn that good-for-nothing nephew shall not have the estate."

He forced five hundred roubles into my hands, as he said,

'to buy sweetmeats". He said that in the country I should

grow as round as a bun, that with him I diould be living on

the fat of the land, that he had a terrible number of things to

238

see to now, that he was dragging about all day on business, and
that he had just sUpped in to see me between his engagements.
Then he went away.

I thought for a long time, I pondered many things, I wore
myseli out thinking, my friend; at last I made up my mind.
My friend, I shall marry him. I ought to accept his offer. If
anyone can rescue me from my shame, restore my good name,
and ward off poverty, privation and misfortune from me in the
future, it is he and no one else. What more can one expect from
the future, what more can one expect from fate? Fedora says
I must not throw away my good fortune; she says, if this isn't
good fortune, what is? Anyway, I can find no other course
for me, my precious friend. What am I to do? I have ruined
my health with work as it is; I can't go on working continually.
Go into a family? I should pine away with depression, besides
I should be of no use to anyone. I am of a sickly constitution,
and so I shall always be a burden on other people. Of course
I am not going into a paradise, but what am I to do, my friend,
what am I to do? What choice have I?

I have not asked your advice. I wanted to think it over
alone. The decision you have just read is unalterable, and I
shall immediately inform Bykov of it, he is pressing me to
answer quickly. He said that his business would not wait,
that he must be off, and that he couldn't put it off for nonsense.
God knows whether I shall be happy, my fate is in His holy,
inscrutable power, but I have made up my mind. They say
Bykov is a kind-hearted man : he will respect me; perhaps I,
too, shall respect him. What more can one expect from such a
marriage?

I will let you know about everything, Makar Ale^yevitch. I
am sure you will understand all my wretchedness. Do not try
to dissuade me from my intention. Your efforts will be in Vciin.
Weigh in your own mind all that has forced me to this step. I
was very much distressed at first, but now I am calmer. What
is before me, I don't know. What will be, will be; as God
wills! . . ,

Bykov has come, I leave this letter unfinished. I wanted to
tell you a great deal more. Bykov is here already !

September 23.
My darling Varvara Alexyevna,

I hasten to answer you, my dear; I hasten to tell you,
my precious, that I am dumbfounded. It all seems so . . .

239

Yesterday we buried Gorshkov. Yes, that is so, Varinka, that
is so; Bykov has behaved honourably; only, you see, my own
... so you have consented. Of course, everything is according
to God's will; that is so, that certainly must be so — ^that is, it
certainly must be God's will in this; and the providence of the
Heavenly Creator is blessed, of course, and inscrutable, and it
is fate too, and they are the same. Fedora sympathises with
you too. Of course you will be happy now, my precious, you
will live in comfort, my darling, my little dearie, little angel
and light of my eyes — only Varinka, how can it be so soon?
. . . Yes, business. . . . Mr. Bykov has business — of course,
everyone has business, and he may have it too. ... I saw him
as he came out from you. He's a good-looking man, good-look-
ing; a very good-looking man, in fact. Only there is something
queer about it, the point is not whether he is a good-looking
man. Indeed, I am not myself at eill. Why, how are we to go
on writing to one another? I ... I shall be left alone. I am
weighing everjHtiing, my angel, I am weighing everything as
you write to me, I am weighing it all in my heart, the reasons.
I had just finished copying the twentieth quire, and meanwhile
these events have come upon us ! Here you are going a journey,
my darling, you will have to buy all sorts of things, shoes of
all kinds, a dress, and I know just the shop in Gorohovoy
Street; do you remember how I described it to you? But no!
How can you, Varinka? what are you about? You can't go
away now, it's quite impossible, utterly impossible. Why, you
will have to buy a great many things and get a carriage. Be-
sides, the weather is so awful now; look, the rain is coming
down in bucketfuls, and such soaking rain, too, and what's"
more . . . what's more, you will be cold, my angel; your little
heart will be cold! Why, you are afraid of anyone strange,
and yet you go. And to whom am I left, sdl alone here? Yes!
Here, Fedora says that there is great happiness in store for
you . . . but you know she's a headstrong woman, she wants
to be the death of me. Are you going to the evening service
to-night, Varinka? I would go to have a look at you. It's true,
perfectly true, my darling, that you are a well-educated,
virtuous and feeling girl, only he had much better many the
shopkeeper's daughter! Don't you think so, my precious?
He had better marry the shopkeeper's daughter! I will come
to see you, Varinka, as soon as it gets dark, I shall just run in
for an hour. It will get dark early to-day, then I shall run in.
I shall certainly come to you for an hour this evening, my

240

darling. Now you are expecting Bykov, but when he goes,
then .. . . Wait a bit, Varinka, I shall run across . . .

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 27.
My dear Friend, Makar Alexyevitch,

Mr. Bykov says I must have three dozen linen chemises.
So I must make haste and find seamstresses to make two dozen,
and we have very httle time. Mr. Bykov is angry and saj^s
there is a great deal of bother over these rags. Our wedding is
to be in five days, and we are to set off the day after the wed-
ding. Mr. Bykov is in a hurry, he says we must not waste much
time over nonsense. I am worn out with all this fuss and can
hardly stand on my feet. There is a terrible lot to do, and
perhaps it would have been better if all this had not happened.
Another thing: we have not enough net or lace, so we ought
to buy some more, for Mr. Bykov says he does not want his
wife to go about like a cook, and that I simply must "wipe all
the country ladies' noses for them". That was his own expres-
sion. So, Makar Alexyevitch, please apply to Madame Chifion
in Gorohovoy Street, and ask her first to send us some seam-
stresses, and secondly, to be so good as to come herself. I am
ill to-day. It's so cold in our new lodging and the disorder is
terrible. Mr. Bykov's aunt can scarcely breathe, she is so old.
I am afraid she may die before we set off, but Mr. Bykov says
that it is nothing, she'U wake up. Everything in the house
is in the most awful confusion. Mr. Bykov is not hving with
us, so the servants are racing about in all directions, goodness
knows where. Sometimes Fedora is the only one to wait on us,
and Mr. Bykov's valet, who looks after everything, has dis-
appeared no one knows where for the last three days. Mr.
Bykov comes to see us every morning, and yesterday he beat
the superintendent of the house, for which he got into trouble
with the police. I have not even had anyone to take my letters
to you. I am writing by post. Yesl I hed ahnost forgotten
the most important point. Tell Madame Chiffon to be sure and
change the net, matching it with the pattern she had yesterday,
and to come to me herself to show the new, and tell her, too,
that I have changed my mind about the embroidery, that it
must be done in crochet; and another thing, that tiie letters
for the monogram on the handkerchiefs must be done in tam-
bour stitch, do you hear? Tambour stitch and not satin stitch.
Iffind you don't forget that it is to be tambour stitch! Some-

24J

thing else I had almost forgotten! For God's sake tell her
also that the leaves on the pelerine are to be raised and that
the tendrils and thorns are to be in appUqud; and, then, the
collar is to be edged with lace, or a deep frill. Please tell her,
Makar Alexyevitch.

Your

V. D.

P.S. — I am so ashamed of worrying you with all my errands.
The day before yesterday you were running about all the morn-
ing. But what can I do 1 There's no sort of order in the house
here, and I am not well. So don't be vexed with me, Makar
Alexyevitch. I'm so miserable. Oh, how will it end, my friend,
my dear, my kind Makar Alexyevitch? I'm afraid to look into
my future. I have a presentiment of something and am living
in a sort of delirium.

P.P.S. — For God's sake, my friend, don't forget anything of
what I have told you. I am so afraid you will make a mistake.
Remember tambour, not satin stitch.

V. D.

September 27.
Dear Varvara Alexyevna,

I have carried out all your commissions carefully. Madame
Chiffon says that she had thought herself of doing them in
tambour stitch; that it is more correct, or something, I don't
know, I didn't take it in properly. And you wrote about a frill,
too, and she talked about the frill. Only I have forgotten,
my darling, what she told me about the frill. All I remember
is, that she said a great deal; such a horrid woman 1 What on
earth was it? But she will tell you about it herself. I have
become quite dissipated, Varinka, I have not even been to
the of&ce to-day. But there's no need for you to be in despair
about that, my own. I am ready to go the round of all the
shops for your peace of mind. You say 5rau are afraid to look
into the future. But at seven o'clock this evening you will
know all about it. Madame Chiffon is coming to see you herself.
So don't be in despair; you must hope for tiie best, everything
will turn out for the best — so there. Well, now, I keep thinking
about that cursed frill— ugh! bother that frill! I should have
run round to you, my angel, I should have looked in, I should
certainly have looked in; I have been to the gates of your house,

242

once or twice. But Bykov — that is, I mean, Mr. Bykov — ^is
alwa)^ so cross, you see it doesn't . . . Well, what of it 1

Makae Dyevushkin.

September 28.
My dear Makar Alexyevitch,

For God's sake, run at once to the jeweller's: tell him
that he must not make the pearl and emerald ear-rings. Mr.
Bykov says that it is too gorgeous, that it's too expensive. He
is angry; he says, that as it is, it is costing him a pretty penny,
and we are robbing him, and yesterday he said tiiat if he had
known beforehand and had any notion of the expense he would
not have bound himself. He says that as soon as we are married
we will set off at once, that we shall have no visitors and that
I needn't hope for dancing and flirtation, and that the holidays
are a long way off. That's how he talks. And, God knows, I
don't want anything of that sort! Mr. Bykov ordered every-
thing himself. I don't dare to answer him : he is so 'hasty.
What will become of me?

V.D.

September 28.
My Darling Varvara Alexyevna,

I — ^that is, the jeweller said — ^veiy good; and I meant to
say at first that I have been taken ill and cannot get up. Here
now, at such an urgent, busy time I have caught a cold, the
devil take it ! I must tell you, to complete my misfortunes, his
Excellency was pleased to be stem and was very angry with
Emeljran Ivanovitch and scolded him, and he was quite worn
out at last, poor man. You see, I tell you about everything. I
wanted to write to you about something else, but I am afraid
to trouble you. You see, I am a foolish, simple man, Varinka,

I just write what comes, so that, maybe, you may But

there, never mind!

Your
Makar Dyevushkin.

September 29.
Varvara Alexyevitch, my own,

I saw Fedora to-day, my darling, she says that you are
to be married to-morrow, and that the day after you are setting
off, and that Mr. Bykov is engaging horses already. I have
told you about his Excellency already, my darling. Another

243

thing — I have checked the bills from the shop in Gorohovoy;
it is all correct, only the things are very dear. But why is Mr.
Bykov angry with you? Well, may you be happy, Varinkal
I am glad, yes, I shall be glad if you are happy. I should come
to the church, my dear, but I've got lumbago. So I keep
on about our letters; who will carry them for us, my precious?
Yes 1 You have been a good friend to Fedora, my own 1 You
have done a good deed, my dear, you have done quite right.
It's a good deed ! And God will bless you for every good deed.
Good deeds never go unrewarded, and virtue will sooner or
later be rewarded by the eternal justice of God. Varinkal
I Wcinted to write to you a great deal; I could go on writing
and writing every minute, every hourl I have one of your
books still, Byelkin's Stories. I tell you what, Varinka, don't
take it away, make me a present of it, my darling. It is not
so much that I want to read it. But you know yourself, my
darling, winter is coming on : the evenings will be long; it wiU
be sad", and then I could read. I shall move from my lodgings,
Varinka, into your old room and lodge with Fedora. I would
not part from that honest woman for anything now; besides,
she is such a hard-working woman. I looked at your empty
room carefully yesterday. Your embroidery frame has
remained untouched, just as it was with embroidery on it. I
examined your needlework; there were all sorts of little scraps
left there, you had begun winding thread on one of my letters.
On the little table I found a piece of paper with the words
"Dear Makar Alexyevitch, I hasten — " and that was all.
Someone must have interrupted you at the most interesting
place. In the comer behind the screen stands your little bed.
. . . Oh, my darting ! ! ! Well, good-bye, good-bye, send me
some answer to this letter quickly.

Makar Dyevushkin.

September 30.
My precious Friend, Makar Alexyevitch,

Everything is over! My lot is cast; I don't know what
it will be, but I am resigned to God's will. To-morrow we set
off. I say good-bye to you for the last time, my precious one,
my friend, my benefactor, my own I Don't grieve for me, live
happily, think of me, and may God's blessing descend on us I
I shall often remember you in my thoughts, in my prayers. So
this time is over ! I bring to my new hfe little consolation from
the memories of the pjist; the more precious will be my memory

244

at you, the more precious will your memory be to my heart.
You are my one friend; you are the only one there who loved
me. You know I have seen it all, I know how you love me I
You were happy in a smile from me and a few words from my
pen. Now you will have to get used to being without me.
How will you do, left alone here? To whom am I leaving you
my kind, precious, only friend! I leave you the book, the
embroidery frame, the unfinished letter; when you look at those
first words, you must read in your thoughts aU that you would
like to hear or read from me, all that I should have written to
you; and what I could not write now! Think of your poor
Varinka who loves you so truly. All your letters are at Fedora's
in the top drawer of a chest. You write that you are ill and Mr.
Bykov will not let me go out an3nvhere to-day. I will write
to you, my friend, I promise; but, God alone knows what may
happen. And so we are saying good-bye now for ever, my
friend, my darUng, my own, for ever. . . . Oh, if only I could
embrace you now! Good-bye, my dear; good-bye, gpod-bye.
Live happily, keep well. My prayers will be always lor you.
Oh! how sad I am, how weighed down in my heart. Mr.
Bykov is calling me.

Your ever loving
. V.

P.S. — My soul is so full, so full of tears now . . . tears are
choking me, rending my heart. Good-bye. Oh, God, how sad
I am!

Remember me, remember your poor Varinka.

Varinka, my Darling, my Precious,

You are being carried off, you are going. They had
better have torn the heart out of my breast than take you from
me! How could you do it? Here you are weeping and going
away! Here I have just had a letter from you, all smudged
with tears. So you don't want to go; so you are being taken
away by force; so you are sorry for me; so you love me! And
with whom will you be now? Your little heart will be sad,
sick and cold out there. It will be sapped by misery, torn by
grief. You will die out there, they will put you in the damp
earth; there will be no one to weep for you there! Mr. Bykov
will be always coursing hares. Oh, my darling, my darling!
What have you brought yourself to? How could you make up
your mind to such a step? What have you done, what have you

245

done, what have you done to yourself? They'll drive you to
your grave out there; they will be the death of you, my angel.
You know you are as weak as a little feather, my own ! Ani
where was I, old fool, where were my eyes! I saw the child
did not know what she was doing, the child was simply in a

fever! I ought simply But no, fool, fool, I thought

nothing and saw nothing, as though that were the right thing,
as though it had nothing to do with me; and went running after
frills and flounces too. . . . No, Varinka, I shall get up; to-
morrow, maybe, I shall be better and then I shall get up ! ...
I'll throw myself under the wheels, my precious, I won't let
you go away! Oh, no, how can it be? By what right is all
this done? I will go with you; I will run after your carriage
if you won't take me, and will run my hardest as long as there
is a breath left in my body. And do you know what it is like
where you are going, my darling? Maybe you don't know— if
so, ask me! There it is, the steppe, my own, the steppe, the
bare steppe; why, it is as bare as my hand; there, there are
hard-hearted peasant women and uneducated drunken peasants.
There the leaves are falling off the trees now, there it is cold
and rainy — and you are going there! Well, Mr. Bykov has
something to do there: he mil be with his hares; but what
about you? Do you want to be a grand coimtry lady, Varinka?
But, my Uttle cherub! you should just look at yourself. Do
you look Uke a grand country lady? . . . Why, how can such
a thing be, Varinka? To whom am I going to write letters,
my darling? Yes! You must take that into consideration,
my darUng — ^you must ask yourself, to whom is he going to
write letters? Whom am I to call my darling; whom am I to
call by that loving name, where am I to find you afterwards,
my angel? I shall die, Varinka, I shall certainly die; my
heart will never survive such a calamity! I loved you like
God's sunshine, I loved you like my own daughter, I loved
everything in you, my darling, my own ! And I lived only for
you ! I worked and copied papers, and walked and went about
and put my thoughts down on paper, in friendly letters, all
because you, my precious, were living here opposite, close by;
perhaps you did not know it, but that was how it was. Yes,
listen, Varinka; you only think, my sweet darling, how is it
possible that you should go away from us? You can't go away,
my own, it is impossible; it's simply utterly impossible! Why,
it's raining, you are delicate, you will catch cold. Your carriage
will be wet through; it will certainly get wet through. It won't

246

get beyond the city gates before it will break down; it will break
down on purpose. They make these carriages in Petersburg so
badly: I know all those Ccirriage makers; they are only fit to
turn out a little model, a plajrthing, not anything solid. I'll
take my oath they won't build it solid. I'll throw myself on
my knees before Mr. Bykov: I will explain to him, I will
explain everything, and you, my precious, explain to him,
make him see reason ! TeU him that you will stay and that you
cannot go away! . . . Ah, why didn't he marry a shop-
keeper's daughter in Moscow? He might just as well have
married herl The shopkeeper's daughter would have suited
him much better, she would have suited him much better. I
know why! And I should have kept you here. What is he to
you, my darling, what is Bykov? How has he suddenly
become so dear to you? Perhaps it's because he is always
buying you frills and flounces. But what are frills and
flounces? What good are frills and flounces? Why, it is non-
sense, Varinka! Here it is a question of a man's life: and
you know a frill's a rag; it's a rag, Varinka, a frill is; why,
I shall buy you frills myself, that's all the reward I get; I
shall buy them for you, my darling, I know a shop, that's
all the reward you let me hope for, my cherub, Varinka. Oh
Lord ! Lord ! So, you are really going to the steppes with Mr.
Bykov, going away never to return! Ah, my darling! . . .
No, you must write to me again, you must write another letter
about everything, and when you go away you must write to
me from there, or else, my heavmly angel, this will be the
last letter and you know that this cannot be, this cannot be
the last letter 1 Why, how can it be, so suddenly, actually the
last? Oh no, I shall write and you will write. . . . Besides,
I am acquiring a literary style. . . . Oh, my own, what does
style matter, now? I don't know, now, what I am writing,
I don't know at all, I don't know and I don't read it over
and I don't improve the style. I write only to write, only to
go on writing to you ... my darling, my own, my
Varinka. . . .

247

THE LANDLADY

A STORY

PART I

CHAPTER I

ORDYNOV had made up his mind at last to change his
lodgings. The landlady with whom he lodged, the poor
and elderly widow of a petty functionEiry, was leaving Peters-
burg, for some reason or other, and setting off to a remote
province to live with relations, before the first of the month
when his time at the lodging was up. Stajdng on till his time
was up the young man thought regretfully of his old quarters
and felt vexed at having to leave them; he wjis poor and
lodgings were dear. The day after his landlady went away,
he took his cap and went out to wander about the back streets
of Petersburg, looking at aU the bills stuck up on the gates of
the houses, and choosing by preference the dingiest and most
populous blocks of buildings, where there was always more
chance of finding a comer in some poor tenant's flat.

He had been looking for a long time, very carefully, but soon
he was visited by new, almost unknown, sensations. He looked
Eibout him at first carelessly and absent-mindedly, then with
attention, and finedly with intense curiosity. The crowd and
bustle of the street, the noise, the movement, the novelty of
objects and the novelty of his position, all the paltry, every-
day triviality of town fife so wearisome to a busy Petersburger
spending his whole life in the fruitless effort to gain by toil,
by sweat and by various other means a snug little home, in
which to rest in peace and quiet — all this vulgar prose and
dreariness aroused in Ord5mov, on the contrary, a sensation of
gentle gladness and serenity. His pale cheeks began to be
suffused with a faint flush, his ^ycs began to shine as though
with new hope, and he drew deep and eager breaths of the
cold fresh air. He felt unusually Ughthearted.

He always led a quiet and absolutely soUtary life. Three
years before, after taking his degree and becoming to a great
extent his own master, he went to see an old man whom he had
known only at second-hand, and was kept waiting a long while
before the hveried servants consented to take lus name in a

«48

second time. Then he walked into a dark, lofty, and deserted
room, one of those dreary-looking rooms still to be found in old-
fashioned family mansions that have been spared by time, and
saw in it a grey-headed old man, hung with orders of distinc-
tion, who had been the friend and colleague of his father, and
was his guardian. The old man handed him a tiny screw of
notes. It turned out to be a very small sum : it was all that was
left of his ancestral estates, which had been sold by auction to
pay the family debts. Ord5mov accepted his inheritance un-
concernedly, took leave for ever of his guardian, and went out
into the street. It was a cold, gloomy, autumn evening; the
young man was dreamy and his heart was torn with a sort of
unconscious sadness. There was a glow of fire in his eyes; ho
felt feverish, and was hot and chilly by turns. He calculated
on the way that on his money he could live for two or three
years, or even on half rations for four years. It grew dusk
and began to drizzle with rain. He had taken the first comer
he came across, and within an hour had moved into it. There
he shut himself up as though he were in a monastery, as though
he had renounced the world. Within two years he had become
a complete recluse.

He had grown shy and unsociable without being aware of the
fact; meanwhile, it never occurred to him tl^t there was
another sort of life — ^full of noise and uproar, of continual
excitement, of continual variety, which was inviting him and i
was sooner or later inevitable. It is true that he could not I
avoid hearing of it, but he had never known it or sought to
know it: from childhood his life had been exceptional; and
now it was more exceptional than ever. He was devoured by
the deepest and most insatiable passion, which absorbs a man's
whole life emd does not, for beings like Ordynov, provide any
niche in the domain of practical daUy activity. This passion
was science. Meanwhile it was consuming his youth, marring
his rest at nights with its slow, intoxicating poison, robbing
him of wholesome food and of fresh air which never penetrated
to his stifling comer. Yet, intoxicated by his passion, Ordynov
refused to notice it. He was young and, so far, asked for
nothing more. His passion made him a babe as regards
external existence and totally incapable of forcing other people
to stand aside when needful to make some sort of place for
himself among them. Some clever people's science is a capital
in their hands; for Ordynov it was a weapon turned against
himself.

249

He was prompted rather by an instinctive impulse than by a
logical, clearly defined motive for studjdng and knowing, and it
was the same in every other work he had done hitherto, even
the most trivial. Even as a child he had been thought queer
and unlike his schoolfellows. He had never known his parents;
he had to put up with coarse and brutal treatment from his
schoolfellows, provoked by his odd and unsociable disposition,
and that made him really unsociable and morose, and little by
little he grew more and more secluded in his habits. But there
never had been and was not even now any order and system
in his solitary studies; even now he had only the first ecstasy,
the first fever, the first deUrium of the artist. He was creating
a system for himself, it was being evolved in him by the years;
/and the dim, vague, but marvellously soothing image of an

' idea, embodied in a new, clarified form, was gradually
emerging in his soul. And this form craved expression, fretting
his soul; he was still timidly aware of its originality, its truth,
its independence : creative genius was already showing, it was

/ gathering strength and taking shape. But the moment of
embodiment and creation was still far off, perhaps very far off,
perhaps altpgether impossible !

Now he walked about the streets like a recluse, like a hermit
who has suddenly come from his dumb wilderness into the
noisy, roaring city. Ever3^thing seemed to him new and
strange. But he was so remote from all the world that was
surging and clattering around him that he did not wonder at
his own strange sensation. He seemed unconscious of his own
aloofness; on the contrary, there was springing up in his heart
a joyful feeling, a sort of intoxication, like the ecstasy of a
hungry man who has meat and drink set before him after a
long fast; though, of course, it was strange that such a trivial
novelty as a diange of lodgings could excite and thrill any
inhabitant of Petersburg, even Ordynov; but the truth is that
it had sccircely ever happened to him to go out with a practical
object.

I He enjoyed wandering about the streets more and more. He

I stared about at everything like a fidneur.

I But, even now, inconsequent as ever, he was reading sig-
nificance in the picture that lay so brightly before him, as
though between the lines of a book. Everything struck him;
he did not miss a single impression, and looked with thoughtful
eyes into the faces of passing people, watched the characteristic
aspect of everything around him and listened lovingly to the

250

speech of the people as though verifying in everything the con-
clusions that had been formed in the stillness of solitary nights.
Often some trifle impressed him, gave rise to an idea, and for
the first tim'i he felt vexed that he had so buried himself alive |
in his cell. Here everything moved more swiftly, his pulse
was full and rapid, his mind, which had been oppressed by
solitude and had been stirred and uplifted only by strained,
exalted activity, worked now swiftly, calmly and boldly. More-~
over, he had an unconscious longing to squeeze himself some-
how into this life which was so strange to him, of which he
had hitherto known — or rather correctly divined — only by the
instinct of the artist. His heart began instinctively throbbing
with a yearning for love and sjonpathy. He looked more
attentively at the people who passed by him; but they were
strangers, preoccupied and absorbed in thought, and by
degrees Ordynov's careless lightheartedness began uncon-
sciously to pass away; rccdity began to weigh upon him, and^
to inspire in him a sort of unconscious dread and awe. He'
began to be weary from the surfeit of new impressions, like
an invalid who for the first time joyfully gets up from his
sick bed, and sinks down giddy and stupefied by the move-
ment and exhausted by the light, the glare, the whirl of life,
the noise and medley of colours in the crowithat flutters by
him. He began to feel dejected and miserable, he began to be ■
full of dread for his whole life, for his work, and even for
the future. A new idea destroyed his peace. A thought
suddenly occurred to him that all his life he had been solitary
and no one had loved him — and, indeed, he had succeeded in
loving no one either. Some of the passers-by, with whom he
had dianced to enter into conversation at the beginning of his
walk, had looked at him rudely and strangely. He saw that
they took him for a madman or a very original, eccentric
fellow, which was, indeed, perfectly correct. He remembered
that everyone was always somewhat ill at ease in his presence,
that even in his childhood everyone had avoided him on
account of his dreamy, obstinate character, that sjmipathy for
people had always been difficult and oppressive to him, and
had been unnoticed by others, for though it existed in him
there was no moral equality perceptible in it, a fact which had
worried him even as a child, when he was utterly unlike other
children of his own age. Now he remembered and reflected
that always, at all times, he had been left out and passed over
by everyone.

Without noticing it, he had come into an end of Petersburg
remote from the centre of the town. Dining after a fashion in
a soUtary restaurant, he went out to wander about again. Again
he passed through many streets and squares. After them
stretched long fences, grey and yellow; he began to come across
quite dilapidated little cottages, instead of wealthy houses, and
mingled with them colossal factories, monstrous, soot-begrimed,
red buildings, with long chimneys. All round it was deserted
and desolate, everything looked grim and forbidding, so at
least it seemed to Ordynov. It was by now evening. He came
out of a long side-street into a square where there stood a parish
church.

He went into it without thinking. The service was just over,
the church was almost empty, only two old women were kneel-
ing near the entrance. The verger, a grey-headed old man,
was putting out the candles. The rays of tihe setting sun were
streaming down from above through a narrow window in the
cupola and flooding one of the chapels with a sea of brilliant
light, but it grew fainter and fainter, and the blacker the
darkness that gathered under the vaulted roof, the more
brilliantly glittered in places the gilt ikons, reflecting the flicker-
ing glow of the lamps and the lights. In an access of profound
depression and some stifled feeling Ordynov leaned against the
wall in the darkest comer of the church, and for an instant
sank into forgetfulness. He came to himself when the even,
hollow sound of the footsteps of two persons resounded in the
building. He raised his eyes and an indescribable curiosity
took possession of him at the sight of the two advancing figures.
They were an old man and a young woman. The old man was
tall, still upright and hale-looking, but thin and of a sickly
pallor. From his appearance he might have been taken for a
merchant from some distant province. He was wearing a long
black fuH-skirted coat trimmed with fur, evidently a hoUday
dress, and he wore it unbuttoned; under it could be seen some
other long-skirted Russian garment, buttoned closely from top
to bottom. His bare neck was covered with a bright red hand-
kerchief carelessly knotted; in his hands he held a fur cap.
His thin, long, grizzled beard fell down to his chest, and fieiy,
feverishly glowing eyes flashed a haughty, prolonged stare from
under his frowning, overhanging brows. The woman was
about twenty and wonderfully beautiful. She wore a splendid
blue, fur-trimmed jacket, and her head was covered with a
white satin kerchief tied under her chin. She walked with her

252

eyes cast down, and a sort of melancholy dignity pervaded her
whole figure and was vividly and mournfully reflected in the
sweet contours of the childishly soft, mild lines of her face.
There was something strange in this surprising couple.

The old man stood still in the middle of the church, and
bowed to aU the four points of the compass, though the church
was quite empty; his companion did the same. Then he took
her by the hand and led her up to the big ikon of the Virgin,
to whom the church was dedicated. It was shining on the
altar, with the dazzling light of the candles reflected on the
gold cind precious stones of the setting. The church verger,
the last one remaining in the church, bowed respectfully to the
old man; the latter nodded to him. The woman fell on her
face, before the ikon. The old man took the hem of the veil
that hung at the pedestal of the ikon and covered her head.
A muffled sob echoed through the church.

Ordynov was impressed by the solemnity of this scene and
waited in impatience for its conclusion. Two minutes later the
woman raised her head and again the bright light of the lamp
fell on her charming face. Ordynov started and took a step
forward. She had aready given her hand to the old man and
they both walked quietly out of the church. Tears were weUing
up from her dark blue eyes under the long eyelashes that
gUstened against the milky pallor of her face, and were rolling
down her pale cheeks. There was a glimpse of a smile on her
lips; but there were traces in her face of some childlike feau:
and mysterious horror. She pressed timidly close to the old
man and it could be seen that she was trembling from
emotion.

Overwhelmed, tormented by a sweet and persistent feeling
that was novel to him, Ordynov followed them quickly and
overtook them in the church porch. The old man looked at
him with unfriendly churUshness; she glanced at him, too, but
absent-mindedly, without curiosity, as though her mind were
absorbed by some far-away thought. Ordynov followed them
without understanding his own action. By now it had grown
quite dark; he followed at a httle distance. The old man and
tiie young woman turned into a long, wide, dirty street full
of hucksters' booths, com chandlers' shops and taverns, lead-
ing straight to the city gates, and turned from it into a long
narrow lane, with long fences on each side of it, running along-
side the huge, blackened wall of a four-storeyed block of build-
ings, by the gates of which one could pass into another street

2.53

also big and crowded. They were approaching the house;
suddenly the old man turned round and looked with impatience
at Ord57nov. The young man stood still as though he had been
shot; he felt himself how strange his impulsive conduct was.
The old man looked round once more, as though he wanted
to assure himself that his menacing gaze had produced its
effect, and then the two of them, he and the young woman,
went in at the narrow gate of the courtyard. Ordynov turned
back.

He was in the most discontented humour and was vexed
with himself, reflecting that he had wasted his day, that he had
tired himself for nothing, and had ended foolishly by mag-
nifying into an adventure an incident that was absolutely
ordinary.

However severe he had been with himself in the moming for
his recluse habits, yet it was instinctive with him to shun any-
j thing that might distract him, impress and shock him in his
/external, not in his internal, artistic world?\ Now he thought
Nnoumfully and regretfully of his sheltered cermer; thai he was
overcome by depression and anxiety about his unsettled
position and the exertions before him. At last, exhausted and
incapable of putting two ideas together, he made his way late
at night to his lodging and realised with amazement that he
had been about to pass the house in which he Uved. Dumb-
foundered, he shook his head, and put down his absent-
mindedness to fatigue and, going up the stairs, at last reached
his garret vmder the roof. There he lighted a candle — and a
minute later the image of the weeping woman rose vividly
before his imagination. So glowing, so intense was the
impression, so longingly did his heart reproduce those mild,
gentle features, quivering with mysterious emotion eind horror,
and bathed in tears of ecstasy or childish penitence, that there
was a mist before his eyes and a thrill of fire seemed to run
through all his limbs. But the vision did not last long. After
enthusiasm, after ecsteisy came reflection, then vexation, then
I impotent anger; without undressing he threw himself on his
1 hard bed . . .

Ordynov woke up rather late in the moming, in a nervous,
timid and oppressed state of mind. He hurriedly got ready,
almost forcing himself to concentrate his mind on the practical
problems before him, and set off in the opposite direction from
that he had taken on his pilgrimage the day before. At last he
found a lodging, a little room in the flat of a poor German

254

called Schpies, who lived alone with a daughter called Tinchen.
On receiving a deposit Schpies instantly took down the notice
that was nailed on the gate to attract lodgers, comphmented
Ordjmov on his devotion to science, and promised to work with
him zealously himself. Ordynov said that he would move in in
the evening. From there he was going home, but changed his
mind and turned off in the other direction; his self-confidence
had returned and he smiled at his own curiosity. In his iiji-
patience the way seemed very long to him. At last he reached
the church in which he had been fiie evening before. Evening
service was going on. He chose a place from which he could
see almost all the congregation; but the figures he was looking
for were not there, ^ter waiting a long time he went away,
blushing. Resolutely suppressing in himself an involuntary
feeling, he tried obstinately to force himself, to change the
current of his thoughts. Reflecting on everyday practical
matters, he remembered he had not had dinner and, feeling
that he was hungry, he went into the same tavern in which he
had dined the day before. Unconsciously he sauntered a long
time about the streets, through crowded and deserted alleys,
and at last came out into a desolate region where the town
ended in a vista of fields that were turning yellow; he came to
himself when the deathlike silence struck him by its strange-
ness and unfamiliarity. It was a dry and frosty day such as
are frequent in Petersburg in October. Not far away was a
cottage; and near it stood two haystacks; a little horse with
prominent ribs was standing unharnessed, with drooping head
and lip thrust out, beside a little two-wheeled gig, and seemed
to be pondering over something. A watch-dog, growling,
gnawed a bone beside a broken wheel, and a child of three who,
with nothing on but his shirt, was engaged in combing his
shaggy white head, stared in wonder at the solitary stranger
from the town. Behind the cottage there was a stretch of field
and cottage garden. There was a dark patch of forest against
the blue sky on the horizon, and on the opposite side were thick
snow-clouds, which seemed chasing before them a flock of fly-
ing birds moving noiselessly one after another across the sky.
All was still and, as it were, solemnly melancholy, full of a
palpitating, hidden suspense . . . Ordynov was walking on
farther and farther, but the desolation weighed upon him. He
turned back to the town, from which there suddenly floated
the deep clamour of bells, ringing for evening service; he re-
doubled his pace and within a short time he was again entering

255

the church that had been so familiar to him since the day
before.

The unknown woman was there aheady. She was kneeling
at the very entrance, among the crowd of worshippers.
Ordynov forced his way through the dense mass of beggars,
old women in rags, sick people and cripples, who were wait-
ing for alms at the church door, and knelt down beside the
stranger. His clothes touched her clothes and he heard the
brea& that came irregularly from her lips as she whispered a
fervent prayer. As before, her features were quivering with
a feeling of boundless devotion, and tears again were falling
1 and dr5ang on her burning cheeks, as though washing away
I some fearful crime. It was quite dark in the place where they
were both kneeUng, and only from time to time the dim flame
of the lamp, flickering in the draught from the narrow open
window pane, threw a quivering glimmer on her face, every
feature of which printed itself on the young man's memory,
making his eyes swim, and rending his heart with a vague,
insufferable pain. But this torment had a peculiar, intense
ecstasy of its own. At last he could not endure it; his breast
began shuddering and aching all in one instant with a sweet
and unfamiliar yearning, and, bursting into sobs, he bowed
down with his feverish head to the cold pavement of the
church. He saw nothing and felt nothing but the ache in his
heart, which thrilled with sweet anguish.

This extreme impressionability, sensitiveness, and lack of
resisting power may have been developed by sohtude, or this
impulsiveness of heart may have been evolved in the exhaust-
ing, suffocating and hopeless silence of long, sleepless nights,
in the midst of unconscious yearnings and impatient stirrings
of spirit, till it was ready at last to explode and find an outlet,
or it may have been simply that the time for that solemn
moment had suddenly arrived and it was as inevitable as when
on a sullen, stifling day the whole sky grows suddenly black
and a storm pours rain and fire on the parched earth, hangs
pearly drops on the emerald twigs, beats down the grass, the
crops, crushes to the earth the tender cups of the flowers, in
order that afterwards, at the first rays of the sun, everything,
reviving again, may shine and rise to meet it, and triumphantly
hft to the sky its sweet, luxuriant incense, glad and rejoicing
in its new life ...

But Ord3niov could not think now what was the matter with
him. He was scarcely conscious.

256

He hardly noticed how the service ended, and only recovered
his senses as he threaded his way after his unknown lady
through the crowd that thronged the entrance. At times he
met her clear and wondering eyes. Stopped every minute byf
the people passing out, she turned round to him more than^
once; he could see that her surprise grew greater and greater,
and all at once she flushed a fiery red. At that minute the
same old man came forward again out of the crowd and took
her by the arm. Ordjmov met his morose and sarcastic stare
again, and a strange anger suddenly gripped his heart. At last
he lost sight of them in the darkness; then, with a superhuman
efiort, he pushed forward and got out of the church. But the
fresh evening air could not restore him; his breathing felt
oppressed and stifled, and his heart began throbbing slowly
and violently as though it would have burst his breast. At last
he saw that he really had lost his strangers — ^they were neither
in the main street nor in the alley. But already a thought had
come to Ordynov, and in his mind was forming one of those
strange, decisive projects, which almost always succeed when
they are carried out, in spite of their wildness. At eight o'clock
next morning he went to the house from the side of the alley
and walked into a narrow, filthy, and unclean backyard which
was like an open cesspool in a house. The porter, who was
doing something in the yard, stood still, leaned with his chin
on the handle of his spade, looked Ord3mov up arid down
and asked him what he wanted. The porter was a little fellow
about five and twenty, a Tatar with an extremely old-looking
face, covered with wrinkles.

"I'm looking for a lodging," Ordynov answered im-
patiently.

"Which?" asked the porter, with a grin. He looked at
Ordynov as if he knew all about him.

"I want a furnished room in a flat," answered Ordynov.

"There's none in that yard," the porter answered
enigmatically.

"And here?"

"None here, either." The porter took up his spade again.

"Perhaps they will let me have one," said Ord5mov, giving
the porter ten kopecks.

The Tatar glanced at Ord3mov, took the ten kopecks, then
took up his spade again, and after a brief silence announced
that: "No, there was no lodging." But the young man did
not hear him; he walked along the rotten, shaking planks that

257

lay in the pool towards the one entrance from that yard into
the lodge of the house, a black, filthy, muddy entrance that
looked as though it were drowning in the pool. In the lower
storey lived a poor coffin-maker. Passing by his cheering work-
shop, Ordynov clambered by a half-broken, shppeiy, spiral
staircase to the upper storey, felt in the darkness a heavy,
clumsy door covered with rags of sacking, found the latch
and opened it. He was not mistaken. Before him stood
the same old man, looking at him intently with extreme
surprise.

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly and almost in a
whisper.

"Is there a room to let?" asked Ordjmov, almost forgetting
everything he had meant to say. He saw over the old man's
shoidder the young woman.

The old man began silently closing the door, shutting
Ordynov out.

"We have a lodging to let," the young woman's friendly
voice said suddenly.

The old man let go of the door.

"I want a comer," said Ordynov, hurriedly entering the
room and addressing himself to the beautiful woman.

But he stopped in amazement as though petrified, looking at
his future landlord and landlady; before his eyes a mute and
amazing scene was taking place. The old man was as pale as
death, as though on the point of losing consciousness. He
looked at the woman with a leaden, fixed, searching gaze. She
too grew pale at first; then blood rushed to her face and her
eyes flashed strangely. She led Ord5mov into another little
room.

The whole flat consisted of one rather large room, divided
into three by two partitions. From the outer room they went
straight into a narrow dark passage; directly opposite was the
door, evidently leading to a bedroom the other side of the
partition. On the right, the other side of the passage, they
went into the room which was to let; it was narrow and pokey,
squeezed in between the partition and two low windows; it was
blocked up with the objects necessary for daily Ufe; it was
poor and cramped but passably clean. The furniture consisted
of a plain white table, two plain chairs and a locker that ran
both sides of the wall. A big, old-fashioned ikon in a gilt
wreath stood over a shelf in a comer and a lamp was burning
before it. There was a huge, clumsy Russian stove partiy in

258

'this room and partly in the passage. It was clear that it was
impossible for three people to live in such a flat.

They began discussing terms, but incoherently and hardly
understanding one another. Two paces away from her,
Ordynov could hear the beating of her heart; he saw she was
trembling with emotion and, it seemed, with fear. At last they
came to an agreement of some sort. The young man announced
that he should move in at once and glanced at his landlord.
The old man was standing at the door, still peile, but a quiet,
even dreamy smile had stolen on to his lips. Meeting
Ordynov 's eyes he frowned agedn.

"Have you a passport?" he asked suddenly, in a loud and
abrupt voice, opening the door into the passage for him.

"Yes," answered Ordynov, suddenly taken aback.

"Who are you?"

"Vassily Ordynov, nobleman, not in the service, engaged in
private work," he answered, falling into the old man's tone.

"So am I," answered the old man. "I'm Ilya Murin,
artisan. Is that enough for you? You can go . . ."

An hour later Ordynov was in his new lodging, to the sur-
prise of himself and of his German, who, together with his
dutiful Tinchen, was beginning to suspect that his new lodger
had deceived hhn.

Ordynov did not understand how it had all happened, and
he did not want to understand. . . .

CHAPTER II

HIS heart was beating so violently that he was giddy, and
everything was green before his eyes; mechanically he
busied himself arranging his scanty belongings in his new
lodgings: he undid the bag containing various necessary
possessions, opened the box containing his books and began
laying them out on the table; but soon all this work dropped
from his hands. Every minute there rose before his eyes the
image of the woman, the meeting with whom had so troubled
and disturbed his whole existence, who had filled his heart with
such irresistible, violent ecstasy — and such happiness seemed
at once flooding his starved life that his thou^ts grew dizzy
and his soul swooned in anguish and perplexity.
He took his passport and carried it to the landlord in the

259 i»

hope of getting a glance at her. But Murin scarcely opned

the door; he took the paper from him, said, "Good; live in

peace," and closed the door again. An unpleasant feeling came

over Ordjmov. He did not know why, but it was irksome for

him to look at the old man. There was something spiteful and

contemptuous in his eyes. But the unpleasant impression

I quickly passed off. For the last three days Ordynov had, in

\ comparison with his former stagnation, been living in a whirl

of life; but he could not reflect, he was, indeed, afraid to. His

whole existence was in a state of upheaval and chaos; he dimly

■ felt as though his life had been broken in half; one yearning,

one expectation possessed him, and no other thoughts troubled

him.

In perplexity he went back to his room. There by the stove
in which the cooking was done a littie humpbacked old woman
was busily at work, so filthy and clothed in such rags that she
was a pitiful sight. She seemed very ill-humoured and
grumbled to herself at times, mmnbling with her lips. She was
his landlord's servant. Ordynov tried to talk to her, but she
would not speak, evidently from ill-humour. At last dinner-
time arrived. The old woman took cabbage soup, pies and beef
out of the oven, and took them to her master eind mistress.
She gave some of the same to Ordynov. After dinner there
was a death-like silence in the flat.

Ordynov took up a book and spent a long time turning over
its pages, tr}ang to follow the meaning of what he had read
often before. Losing patience, he threw down the book and
began again putting his room to rights; at last he took up his
cap, put on his coat and went out into the street. Walking at
hazard, without seeing the road, he still tried as far as he could
to concentrate his mind, to collect his scattered thoughts and to
reflect a little upon his position. But the effort only reduced
him to misery, to torture. He was attacked by fever and chills
alternately, and at times his heart beat so violently that he
had to support himself against the wall. "No, better death,"
he thought; "better death," he whispered with feverish,
trembling lips, hardly thinking of what he was saying. He
walked for a very long time; at last, feeling that he was soaked
to the skin and noticing for the first time that it was pour-
ing with rain, he returned home. Not far from home he saw
his porter. He fancied that the Tatar stared at him for some
time with curiosity, and then went his way when he noticed
that he had been seen.

260

"Good-morning," said Ordynov, overtaking him. "What
are you called?"

"Folks call me porter," he answered, grinning.

"Have you been porter here long?"

"Yes."

"Is my landlord an artisan?"

"Yes, if he says so."

"What does he do?"

"He's ill, lives, prays to God. That's all."

"Is that his wife?"

"What wife?"

"Who lives with him."

"Ye-es, if he says so. Good-bye, sir."

The Tatar touched his cap and went off to his den.

Ordynov went to his room. The old woman, mumbling and
grumbling to herself, opened the door to him, fastened it again
with the latch, and again cUmbed on the stove where she spent
her life. It was already getting dark. Ordynov was going to
get a light, when he noticed tiiat the door to the landlord's
room was locked. He called the old woman, who, propping
herself on her elbow, looked sharply at him from the stove, as
though wondering what he wanted with the landlord's lock;
she threw him a box of matches without a word. He went
back into his room and again, for the hundredth time, tried to
busy himself with his books and things. But, little by Uttle,
without understanding what he was doing, he sat down on the
locker, and it seemed to him that he feU asleep. At times he
came to himself and realised that his sleep was not sleep but
the agonising unconsciousness of illness. He heard a knock at
the door, heard it opened, and guessed that it was the land-
lord and landlady returning from evening service. At that
point it occurred to him that he must go in to them for some-
thing. He stood up, and it seemed to him that he was already
going to them, but stumbled and fell over a heap of firewood
which the old woman had flung down in the middle of the floor.
At that point he lost consciousness completely, and opening his
eyes after a long, long time, noticed with surprise that he was
lying on the same locker, just as he was, in his clothes, and that
over him there bent with tender solicitude a woman's face,
divinely, beautiful and, it seemed, drenched with gentle,
motherly tears. He felt her put a pillow under his head and
lay something warm over him, and some tender hand was laid
on his feverish brow. He wanted to say "Thank you," he

261

wanted to take that hand, to press it to his parched lips, to wet
it with his tears, to kiss, to kiss it to all eternity. He wanted
to say a great deal, but what he did not know himself; he
would have been glad to die at that instant. But his arms
felt like lead and would not move; he was as it were numb,
and felt nothing but the blood pulsing through his veins, with
throbs which seemed to lift him up as he lay in bed. Some-
body gave him water. ... At last he fell into unconsciousness.

He woke up at eight o'clock in the morning. The sunshine
was pouring through the green, mouldy windows in a sheaf of
golden rays; a feeling of comfort relaxed the sick man's limbs.
He was quiet and calm, infinitely happy. It seemed to him that
someone had just been by his prillow. He woke up, looking
anxiously around him for that imseen being; he so longed to
embrace his friend and for the first time in his life to say, "A
happy day to, you, my dear gne."

"What a long time you have been asleep!" said a woman's
gentle voice.

Ordjmov looked round, and the face of his beautiful land-
lady was bending over him with a friendly smile as clear as
sunUght.

"How long you have been ill!" she said. "It's enough;
get up. Why keep yoiuself in bondage? Freedom is sweeter
than bread, fairer than sunshine. Get up, my dove, get up."

Ordynov seized her hand and pressed it warmly. It seemed
to. him that he was still dreaming.

"Wait; I've made tea for you. Do you want some tea?
You had better have some; you'll be better. I've been ill
myself and I know."

"Yes, give me something to drink," said Ordynov in a faint
voice, ajid he got up on his feet. He was still very weak. A
chill ran down his spine, all his limbs ached and felt as though
they were broken. But there was a radiance in his heart, and
the sunlight seemed to warm him with a sort of solemn, serene
joy. He felt that a new, intense, incredible life was beginning
for him. His head was in a slight whirl.

"Your name is Vassily?" she asked. "Either I have made
a mistake, or I fancy the master cedled you that yesterday.'^

"Yes, it is. And what is your name?" said Ordynov, going
nearer to her and hardly able to stand on his feet. He
staggered.

She caught him by the arm, and laughed.

"My name is Katerina," she said, looking into his face with

262

her large, clear blue eyes. They were holding each other by
the hands.

"You want to say something to me," she said at last.

"I don't know," answered Ordynov; everything was dark
before his eyes.

"See what a state you're in. There, my dove, there; don't
grieve, don't pine; sit here at the table in the sun; sit quiet,
and don't follow me," she added, seeing that the young man
made a movement as though to keep her. "I will be with you
again at once; you have plenty of time to see as much as you
want of me." A minute later she brought in the tea, put it on
the table, and sat down opposite him.

"Come, drink it up," she said. "Does your head ache?"

"No, now it doesn't ache," he said. "I don't know,
perhaps it does. ... I don't want any . . . enough,
enough! ... I don't know what's the matter with me," he
said, breathless, and finding her hand at last. "Stay here,
don't go away from me; give me your hand again. . . . It's
all dark before my eyes; I look at you as though you were the
Sim," he said, as it were tearing the words out of his heart,
and almost swooning with ecstasy £is he uttered them. His
throat was choking with sobs.

"Poor fellow! It seems you have not lived with anyone
kind. You are all lonely and forlorn. Haven't you any
relations?"

"No, no one; I am alone . . . never mind, it's no matter!
Now it's better; I am all right now," said Ordynov, as though
in delirium. The room seemed to him to be going round.

"I, too, have not seen my people for many years. You
look at me as . . ." she said, after a minute's silence.

"Well . . . what?"

"You look at me as though my eyes were wanning you!
You know, when you love anyone ... I took you to my
heart from the first word. If you are ill I will look after you
again. Only don't you be ill; no. When you get up we will
live like brother and sister. Will you? You know it's difficult
to get a sister if God has not given you one."

"Who are you? Where do you come from?" said Ordynov
in a weak voice.

"I am not of these parts. . . . You know the folks tell how
twelve brothers lived in a dark forest, and how a fair maiden
lost her way in that forest. She went to them and tidied every-
thing in the house for them, and put her love into everything.

263

The brothers came home, and learned that the sister had spent
the day there. They began calling her; she came out to them.
They all called her sister, gave her freedom, and she was equal
with aU. Do you know the fairy tale?"

"I know it," whispered Ordynov.

"Life is sweet; is it sweet to you to live in the world?"

"Yes, yes; to live for a long time, to live for ages," answered
Ord3mov.

"I don't know," said Katerina dreamily. "I should like
death, too. Is life sweet? To love, and to love good people,
yes. . . . Look, you've turned as white as flour again."

"Yes, my head's going round. ..."

"Stay, I will bring you my bedclothes and another pillow;
I will make up the bed here. Sleep, and dream of me; your
weakness will pass. Our old woman is ill, too."

While she talked she began making the bed, from time to
time looking at Ordynov with a smile.

"What a lot of books you've got!" she said, moving away
a box.

She went up to him, took him by. the right arm, led him to
the bed, tucked him up and covered him with the quilt.

"They say books spoil a man," she said, shaking her head
thoughtfully. "Do you like reading?"

"Yes," answered Ordynov, not knowing whether he were
asleep or awake, and pressing Katerina' s hand tight to assure
himself that he was awake.

"My master has a lot of books; you should see! He says
they are religious books. He's always reading to me out of
them. I will show you afterwards; you shall tell me afterwards
what he reads to me out of them."

"Tell me," whispered Ord5mov, keeping his eyes fixed on
her.

"Are you fond of pra3dng?" she said to him after a
moment's silence. "Do you know, I'm afraid, I am always
afraid . . ."

She did not finish; she seemed to be meditating. At last
Ordynov raised her hand to his lips.

"Why are you kissing my hand?" (and her cheeks flushed
faintly crimson). "Here, kiss them," she said, laughing and
holding out both hands to him; then she took one away and
laid it on his burning forehead; then she began to stroke and
arrange his hair. She flushed more and more; at last she sat
down on the floor by his bedside and laid her cheek against

264

his cheek; her warm, damp breath tickled his face. ... At
last Ordynov felt a gush of hot tears fall from her eyes like
molten lead on his cheeks. He felt weaker and weaker; he Wcis
too faint to move a hand. At that moment there was a knock
at the door, followed by the grating of the bolt. Ordynov could
hear the old man, his landlord, come in from the other side of
the partition. Then he heard Katerina get up, without haste
and without listening, take her books; he felt her make the
sign of the cross over him as she went out; he closed his eyes.
Suddenly a long, burning kiss scorched his feverish lips; it was
like a knife thrust into his heart. He uttered a feiint shriek and
sank into unconsciousness. . . .

Then a strange Ufe began for him.

In moments when his mind was not clear, the thought flashed
upon him that he was condemned to live in a long, unending
dream, full of strange, fruitless agitations, struggles and suffer-
ings. In terror he tried to resist the disastrous fatalism that
weighed upon him, and at a moment of tense and desperate
conflict some unknown force struck him again and he felt
clearly that he was once more losing memory, that an
impassable, bottomless abyss was opening before him and he
was flinging himself into it with a wail of anguish and despair.
At times he had moments of insufferable, devastating happi-
ness, when the life force quickens convulsively in the whole
organism, when the f>ast shines clear, when the present glad
moment resounds with triumph and one dreams, awake, of a
future beyond all ken; when a hope beyond words falls with
life-giving dew on the soul; when one wants to scream with
ecstasy; when one feels that the flesh is too weak for such
a mass of imf>ressions, that the whole thread of existence is
breaking, and yet, at the same time, one greets all one's life
with hope and renewal. At times he sank into lethargy, and
then everything that had happened to him the last few days
was repeated again, and passed across his mind in a swarm of
broken, vague images; but his visions came in strange and
enigmatic form. At times the sick man forgot what had hap-
pened to him, and wondered that he was not in his old lodging
with his old landlady. He could not understand why the old
woman did not come as she always used at the twilight hour
to the stove, which from time to time flooded the whole dark
comer of the room with a faint, flickering glow, to warm her
trembling, bony hands at the dying embers before the fire went
out, always talking and whispering to herself, and sometimes

265

looking at him, her strange lodger, who had, she thought,
grown mad by sitting so long over his books.

Another time he would remember that he had moved into
another lodging; but how it had happened, what was the matter
with him, and why he had to move he did not know, though
his whole soul was swooning in continual, irresistible yearn-
ing. . . . But to what end, what led him on and tortured him,
and who had kindled this terrible flame that stifled him and
consumed his blood, again he did not know and could not
remember. Often he greedily clutched at some shadow, often
he heard the rustle of light footsteps near his bed, and a
whisper, sweet as music, of tender, caressing words. Some-
one's moist and uneven breathing passed over his face, thrill-
ing his whole being with love; hot tears dropped upon his
feverish cheeks, and suddenly a long, tender kiss was printed
on his lips; then his life lay languishing in unquenchable
torture; all existence, the whole world, seemed standing still,
seemed to be dying for ages around him, and everything
seemed shrouded in a long night of a thousand years. . . .

Then the tender, calinly flowing years of early childhood
seemed coming back to him again with serene joy, with the
inextinguishable happiness, the first sweet wonder of life, with
the swarms of bright spirits that fluttered under every flower he
picked, that sported with him on the luxuriant green meadow
before the Uttle house among the acacias, that smiled at him
from the immense crystal lake beside which he would sit for
hours together, listening to the plashing of the waves, and that
rustled about him with their wings, lovingly scattering bright
rainbow dreams upon his little cot, while his mother, bending
over him, made the sign of the cross, kissed him, and sang him
sweet lullabies in the long, peaceful nights. But then a being
suddenly began to appear who overwhelmed him with a child-
like terror, first bringing into his life the slow poison of sorrow
and tears; he dimly felt that an unknown old man held all his
future years in thrall, and, trembUng, he could not turn his
eyes away from him. The wicked old man followed him about
everywhere. He peeped out and treacherously nodded to the
boy from under every bush in the copse, laughed and mocked
at him, took the shape of every doll, grimacing and laughing
in his hands, like a spiteful evil gnome: he set every one of
the child's inhuman schoolfellows against him, or, sitting with
the Uttle ones on the school bench, peeped out, grimacing,
from every letter of his grammar. Then when he was asleep

266

the evil old man sat by his pillow ... he drove away the
bright spirits whose gold and sapphire wings rustled about his
cot, carried off his poor mother from him for ever, and began
whispering to him every night long, wonderful fairy tales,
unintelligible to his childish imagination, but thrilling and tor-
menting him with terror and unchildlike passion. But thei
wicked old man did not heed his sobs and entreaties, and would I
go on talking to him till he sank into numbness, into uncon-
sciousness. Then the child suddenly woke up a man; the yecu^
passed over him unseen, unheeded. He suddenly became aware
of his real position. He understood all at once that he Wcis
alone, an alien to all the world, alone in a comer not his own,
among mysterious and suspicious people, among enemies who
were always gathering together and whispering in the comers
of his dark room, and nodding to the old woman squatting on
her heels near the fire, warming her bony old hands, and point-
ing to him. He sank into perplexity and uneasiness; he wanted
to know who these people were, why they were here, why he
was himself in this room, and guessed that he had strayed into
some dark den of miscreants, drawn on by some jxjwerful but
incomprehensible force, without having first found out who and
what the tenants were and who his landlord was. He began to
be tortured by suspicion — and suddenly, in the stillness of the-
night, again &erebeggn_aJ2iig^_whispeiM-stoiXLJfl^
woman, moumluI^'nodduigTier white, grizzled head before
the dying fire, was muttering it softly, hardly audibly to her-
self. But — and agm_he_was_OKeEconiej;nth horror— the story
took shape brfjg^^jmjnjormsandiaj^srTre saw evetytHing,
from his dim, chilcUsh visions upwards: all his thoughts and
dreams, all his experiences in life, all he had read in books,
things he had forgotten long ago, all were coming to life, all
were being put together, taking shape and rising up before him

jnjado^l forms and images, moving and swarming about him;

"hesawsj^feaa'ouF'beiore him magnificent, enchanted gardens,
a whole town bmlt up and demolished before his eyes, a whole
churchyard giving up its dead, who began living over again;
whole 'races and peoples came into being and passed away
before his eyes; finally, every one of his thoughts, every im-
material fancy, now took bodily shape around his sick-bed;
took bodily shape almost at the moment of its conception : at
last he saw himself thinkings not in jmmaterialJdeas^^JbHt in
whole' worldsPv^le_creations, saw himself borne along Uke an
atoniiinhis infinite," strange worid from which there was no

267

escape, and all this life in its mutinous independence crushing
and oppressing him and pursuing him witi eternal, infinite
irony; he felt that he was dying, dissolving into dust and ashes
for ever, and even without hope of resurrection, he tried to
flee, but there was no comer in all the universe to hide him.
jAt last, in an access of despair, he made an intense effort,
I uttered a shriek and woke up.

Kjle woke up, bathed in a chill, icy sweat. About him was a
deadly silence; it was the dead of night. ^ut_still_i^seemed
to him that somewhere the wonderful fairy tale was going on,
iEE^meloarae vcuce^was reaSy telling a.lQngstoiy- of some-
thing that.5eemed_familiar to him. He heard talk of dark
forests, of bold brigands7 of some daring bravoes, maybe of
Stenka Razin himself, of merry drunken bargemen, of some
fair maiden, and of Mother Volga. Was it not a fairy tale?
Was he really hearing it? For a whole hour he lay, open-eyed,
without stirring a muscle, in agonising numbness. At last he
got up carefully, and joyfully felt that his strength had come
back to him after his severe iUness. T^ie_deliriumwas overand
reality was beginning. He noticed that he was dressed exactly
asTiehad'lJeen during his talk with Katerina, so that it could
not have been long since the morning she had left him. The
fire of resolution ran through his veins. Mechanically he felt
with his hand for a big nail for some reason driven into the top
of the partition near which stood his bed, seized it, and hang-
ing his whole weight upon it, succeeded in pulling himself up
to the crevice from which a hardly perceptible light stole into
his room. He put his eye to the opening and, aJmost breath-
less with excitement, began peeping in.

There was a bed in the comer of the landlord's room; before
it was a table covered with a cloth and piled up with books of
old-fashioned shape, looking from their bindings like devo-
tional books. In the corner was an ikon of the same old-
fashioned pattern as in his room; a lamp was burning before it.
On the bed lay the old man, Murin, sick, worn out with suffer-
ing and pale as a sheet, covered with a fur mg. On his knees
was an open book. On a bench beside the bed lay Katerina,
with her arm about the old man's chest and her head bent on
his shoulder. She was looking at him with attentive, childishly
wondering eyes, and seemed, breathless with expectation, to be
listening with insatiable curiosity to what Murin was telling her.
From time to time the speaker's voice rose higher, there was a
shade of animation on his pale face; he frowned, his eyes began

268

to flash, and Katerina seemed to turn pale with dread and
expectation. Then something like a smile came into the old
man's face and Katerina began laughing softly: Sometimes
tears came into her eyes; then the old man tenderly stroked her
on the head like a child, and she embraced him more tightly
than ever with her bare arm that gleamed like snow, and
nestled even more lovingly to his bosom.

At times Ordynov still thought this was part of his dream;
in fact, he was convinced of it; but the blood rushed to his head
and the veins throbbed painfully in his temples. He let go of
the nail, got off the bed, and staggering, feeling his way Uke a
lunatic, without understanding the impulse that flamed up like
fire in his blood, he went to the door and pushed violently; the
rusty bolt flew open at once, and with a bang and a crash he
suddenly found himself in the middle of the landlord's bed-
room. He saw Katerina start and tremble, saw the old man's
eyes flash angrily under his lowering brows, and his whole face
contorted witii sudden fury. He saw the old man, still keeping
close watch upon him, feel hurriedly with fumbling hand for a
gun that hung upon the wall; then he saw the barrel of the gun
flash, aimed straight at his breast with an uncertain hand that
trembled with fury. . . . There was the sound of a shot, then
a wild, almost unhuman, scream, and when the smoke
parted, a terrible sight met Ordynov's eyes. Trembling all
over, he bent over the old man. Murin was lying on the floor;
he was writhing in convulsions, his face was contorted in agony,
and there was foam upon his working lips. Ordjmov guessed
that the unhappy man was in a severe epileptic fit. He flew,
together with Katerina, to help him . . .

CHAPTER III

THE whole night was spent in a^tation. Next day Ordjmov
went out early in the morning, in spite of his weakness and
the fever that stiU hung about him. In the yard he met the
porter again. This time the Tartar lifted his cap to him from a
distance and looked at him with curiosity. Then, as though
pulling himself together, he set to work with his broom,
glancing askance at Ordjmov as the latter slowly approached
him.

"WeU, did you hear nothing in the night?" asked Ordjmov.

269

"Yes, I heard."

"What sort of man is he? Who is he?"

"Self took lodgings, self should know; me stranger."

"Will you ever speak?" cried Ordynov, beside himself with
an access of morbid irritability.

"What did me do? Your fault^^you frightened the tenants.
Below lives the cof&n-maker, he deed, but heard it all, and his
wife deaf, but she heard, and in the next yard, far away, they
heard. I go to the overseer."

"I am going to him myself," answered Ordynov; and he
went to the gate.

"As you will; self took the room. . . . Master, master, stay."

Ordynov looked round; the porter touched his hat from
poUteness.

"WeU!"

"If you go, I go to the landlord."

"What?"

"Better move."

"You're stupid," said Ordynov, and was going on again.

"Master, master, stay." The porter touched his hat again
and grinned. "Listen, master: be not wrathful; why per-
secute a poor man? It's a sin to persecute a poor man. It is
not God's law — do you hear?"

"You listen, too: here, take that. Come, what is he?"

"What is he?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell you without money."

At this point the porter took up his broom, brandished it
once or twice, then stopped and looked intently, with an air of
importance, at Ordynov.

"You're a nice gentleman. If you don't wamt to live with a
good man, do as you like; that's what I say."

Then the Tatar looked at him still more expressively, and fell
to sweeping furiously again.

Making a show of having finished something at last, he went
up to Ordynov mysteriously, and with a very expressive
gesture pronounced —

"This is how it is."

"How— what?"

"No sense."

"What?"

"Has flown away. Yes! Has flown away!" he repeated in
a still more mysterious tone. "He is ill. He used to have a

270

barge, a big one, and a second and a third, used to be on the
Volga, and me from the Volga myself. He had a factory, too,
but it was burnt down, and he is off his head."

"He is mad?"

"Nayl . . . Nay! . . ." the Tatar answered emphatically.
"Not mad. He is a clever man. He knows everything; he
has read many books, many, many; he has read everything,
and tells others the truth. Some bring two roubles, three
roubles, forty roubles, as much as you please; he looks in a
book, sees and tells the whole truth. And the money's on the
table at once — ^nothing without money!"

At this point the Tatar positively laughed with glee, throw-
ing himseU into Murin's interests with extreme zest.

"Why, does he tell fortunes, prophesy?"

"H'm! ..." muttered the porter, wagging his head quickly.
"He tells the truth. He prays, prays a great deal. It's just
that way, comes upon him."

Then the Tatar made his expressive gesture again.

At that moment someone called the porter from the other
37ard, and then a little, bent, grey-headed man in a sheepskin
appeared. He walked, stumbling and looking at the ground,
groaning and muttering to himself. He looked as though he
were in his dotage.

"The master, the master!" the porter whispered in a fluster,
with a hurried nod to Ordynov, and taking off his cap, he ran
to meet the old man, whose face looked familiar to Ordynov;
he had anjnvay met him somewhere just lately.

Reflecting, however, that there was nothing remarkable in
that, he walked out of the yard. The porter struck him as an
out-and-out rogue and an impudent fellow.

"The scoimdrel was practically bargaining with me!" he
thought. "Goodness knows what it means!"

He had reached the street as he said this.

By degrees he began to be absorbed in other thoughts. The
impression was unpleasant, the day was grey and cold; flakes
of snow were flying. The young man felt overcome by a feverish
shiver again; he felt, too, as though the earth were shaking
under hmi. All at once an unpleasantly sweet, familiar voice
wished him good-morning in a broken tenor.

"Yaroslav Ilyitch," said Ordynov.

Before him stood a short, sturdy, red-cheeked man, appar-
ently about thirty, with oily grey eyes and a little smile, dressed
... as Yaroslav Ilyitch always was dressed. He was holding

271

out his hand to him in a very amicable way. Ordynov had
made the acquaintance of Yaroslav Ilyitch just a year before
in quite a casual way, almost in the street. They had so easily
become acquainted, partly by chance and partly through Yaro-
slav Ilyitch's extraordinary propensity for picking up every-
where good-natured, well-bred people, and his preference for
friends of good education whose talents and elegance of be-
haviour made them worthy at least of belonging to good society.
Though Yaroslav Ilyitch had an extremely sweet tenor, yet
even in conversation with his dearest friends there was some-
thing extraordinarily clear, powerful and dominating in the
tone of his voice that would put up with no evasions; it was
perhaps merely due to habit.

"How on earth . . . ?" exclaimed Yaroslav Iljdtch, with an
expression of the most genuine, ecstatic pleasure.

"I cim living here."

"Have you Uved here long?" Yaroslav Ilyitch continued on
an ascending note. "And I did not know it! Why, we are
neighbours! I am in this quarter now. I came back from
the Ryazan province a montii ago. I've caught you, my old
and noble friend!" and Yaroslav Iljdtch laughed in a most
good-natured way. "Sergeyev!" he cried impressively, "wait
for me at Tarasov's, cind don't let them touch a sack without
me. And stir up the Olsufyev porter; tell him to come to the
ofi&ce at once. I shall be there in an hour. . . ."

Hurriedly giving someone this order, the refined Yaroslav
Ilyitch took Ordynov's arm and led him to the nearest
restaurant.

"I shall not be satisfied till we have had a couple of words
alone after such a long separation. Well, what of your doings? "
he pronoimced almost reverently, dropping his voice mysteri-
ously. "Working at science, as ever?"

"Yes, as before," answered Ordynov, struck by a bright
idea.

"Splendid, Vassily Mihalitch, splendid!" At this point
Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov's hand warmly. "You will
be a credit to the community. God give you luck in your
career. . . . Goodness ! how glad I am I met you ! How often
I have thought of you, how often I have said : 'Where is he,
our good, noble-hearted, witty Vassily Mihalitch?' "

They engaged a private room. Yaroslav Ilyitch ordered
lunch, asked for vodka, and looked feelingly at Ordynov.

"I have read a great deal since I saw you," he began in a

272

timid and somewhat insinuating voice. "I have read all
Pushkin . . ."

Ord3mov looked at him absent-mindedly.

"A marvellous understanding of human passion. But first
of all, let me express my gratitude. You have done so much
for me by nobly instilling into me a right way of thinking."

"Upon my word . . ."

"No, let me speak; I always like to pay honour where
honour is due, and I am proud that this feeling at least has
found expression."

"Really, you are unfair to yourself, and I, indeed ..."

"No, I am quite fair," Yaroslav Ilyitch replied, with extra-
ordinary warmth. "What am I in comparison with you?"

"Good Heavens!"

"Yes. . . ."

Then followed silence.

"Following your advice, I have dropped many low acquaint-
ances and have, to some extent, softened the coarseness of my
manners," Yaroslav Ilyitch began again in a somewhat timie
and insinuating voice. "In the time when I am free from my
duties I sit for the most part at home; in the evenings I read
some improving book and ... I have only one desire, Vassily
Mihalitch: to be of some Uttle use to the fatherland. ..."

"I have always thought you a very high-minded man, Yaro-
slav Ilyitch."

"You always bring balm to my spirit . . . you generous
young man. ..."

Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov's hand warmly.

"You are drinking nothing?" he said, his enthusiasm sub-
siding a little.

"I can't; I'm ill."

"111? Yes, are you really? How long — ^in what way — did
you come to be ill? If you like I'll speak . . . What doctor
is treating you? If you like I'll speak to our parish doctor.
I'll run round to him myself. He's a very skilful man!"

Yaroslav Ilyitch was already picking up his hat.

"Thank you very much. I don't go in for being doctored.
I don't like doctors."

"You don't say so? One can't go on like that. But he's a
very clever man," Yaroslav Ilyitch went on imploringly. "The
other day— do allow me to tell you this, dear Vassily Mihalitch
— ^the odier day a poor carpenter came. 'Here,' said he, 'I
hurt my hand with a tool; cure it for me. . . .' Semyon Pafnut-

273

yitch, seeing that the poor fellow was in danger of gangrene,
set to work to cut off the wounded hand; he did this in my
presence, but it was done in such a gener . . . that is, in such
a superb way, that I confess if it had not been for compassion
for suffering humanity, it would have been a pleasure to look
on, simply from curiosity. But where and how did you fall
ill?"

"In moving from my lodging . . . I've only just got up."

"But you are still very unwell and you ought not to be out.
So you cire not living where you were before? But what in-
duced you to move?"

"My landlady was leaving Petersburg."

"Domna Savishna? Really? ... A thoroughly estimable,
good-hearted woman! Do you know? I had almost a son's
respect for her. That life, so near its end, had something of
the serene dignity of our forefathers, and looking at her, one
seemed to see the incarnation of our hoaiy-headed, stately old
traditions ... I mean of that . . . something in it so poeticall "
Yaroslav Ilyitch concluded, completely overcome with shyness
and blushing to his ears.

"Yes, she was a nice woman."

"But allow me to ask you where you are settled now."

"Not far from here, in Koshmarov's Buildings."

"I know him. A grand old man! I am, I may say, almost
a real friend of his. A fine old veteran!"

Yaroslav Ilyitch's Ups almost quivered with enthusiasm.
He asked for another glass of vodka and a pipe.

"Have you taken a flat?"

"No, a furnished room in a flat."

"Who is your landlord? Perhaps I know him, too."

"Murin, an artisan; a tall old man . . ."

"Murin, Murin; yes, in the back court, over the coffin-
maker's, allow me to ask?"

"Yes, yes, in the back court."

"H'm! are you comfortable there?"

"Yes; I've only just moved in."

"H'm! ... I only meant to say, h'm! . . . have you
noticed nothing special?"

"Really . . ."

"That is ... I am sure you will be all right there if you are
satisfied with your quarters. ... I did not mean that; I am
ready to warn you . . . but, knowing your character . . . How
did that old artisan strike you?"

274

"He seems to be quite an invalid."

"Yes, he's a great sufferer. . . . But have you noticed
nothing? Have you talked to him? "

"Very little; he is so morose and unsociable."

"H'm! . . ." Yaroslav Ilyitch mused. "He's an unfor-
tunate man," he said dreamily.

;is he?"

"Yes, unfortunate, and at the same time an incredibly
strange and interesting person. However, if he does not worry
you . . . Excuse my dwelling upon such a subject, but I was
curious . . ."

"And you have really roused my curiosity, too. ... I should
■very much hke to know what sort of a man he is. Besides, I
am living with him. . . ."

"You know, they say the man was once very rich. He
traded, as most likely you have heard. But through various
unfortunate circumstances he was reduced to poverty; many of
his barges were wrecked in a storm and lost, together with their
cargo. His factory, which was, I believe, in the charge of a
near and dear relation, was equally unlucky and was burnt
down, and the relation himself perished in the flames. It must
be admitted it was a terrible loss! Then, so they say, Murin
sank into tearful despondency; they began to be afraid he
would lose his reason, and, indeed, in a quarrel with another
merchant, also an owner of barges plying on the Volga, he
suddenly showed himself in such a strange an unexpected light
that the whole incident could only be accounted for on the sup-
position that he was quite mad, which I am prepared to
believe. I have heard in detail of some of his queer ways; there
suddenly happened at last a very strange, so to say momentous,
circumstance which can only be attributed to the malign influ-
ence of wrathful destiny."

"What was it?" asked Ordynov.

"They say that in a fit of madness he made an attempt on
the life of a young merchant, of whom he had before been
very fond. He was so upset when he recovered from the attack
that he was on the point of taking his own life; so at least they
say. I don't know what happened after that, but it is known
that he was several years doing penance. . . . But what is
the matter with you, Vassily Mihalitch? Am I fatiguing you
with my artless tale?"

"Oh no, for goodness' sake . . . You say that he has been
doing penance; but he is not alone."

275

"I don't know. I am told he was alone. Anyway, no one
else was mixed up in that affair. However, I have not heard
what followed; I only know ..."

"Well?"

"I only know — that is, I had nothing special in my mind to
add ... I only want to say, if you find anything strange or
out of the ordinary in him, all that is merely the result of
the misfortunes that have descended upon him one after the
other. . . ."

"Yes, he is so devout, so sanctimonious."

"I don't think so, Vassily Mihalitch; he has suffered so
much; I believe he is quite sincere."

"But now, of course, he is not mad; he is all right."

"Oh, yes, yes; I can answer for that, I am ready to take my
oath on it; he is in full possession of all his faculties. He is
only, as you have justly observed, extremely strange and
devout. He is a very sensible man, in fact. He speaks smartly,
boldly and very subtly. The traces of his stormy life in the
past are still visible on his face. He's a curious man, and very
well read."

"He seems to be always reading religious books."

"Yes, he is a mystic."

"What?"

"A mystic. But I tell you that as a secret. I will tell you,
as a secret, too, that a very careful watch was kept on him for
a time. The man had a great influence on people who used to
go to him."

"What sort of influence?"

"But you'll never believe it; you see, in those days he did
not live in this building; Alexandr Ignatyevitch, a respectable
citizen, a man of standing, held in universal esteem, went to
see him with a lieutenant out of curiosity. They arrive and
are received, and the strange man begins by looking into their
faces. He usually looks into people's faces if he consents to be
of use to them; if not, he sends people away, and even very
uncivilly, I'm told. He asks them, 'What do you want, gentle-
men?' 'Well,' answers Alexandr Ignatyevitch, 'your gift can
tell you that, without our sa3dng.' 'Come with me into the
next room,' he sa)^; then he signified which of them it was
who needed his services. Alexandr Ignatyevitch did not say
what happened to him afterwards, but he came out from him
as white as a sheet. The same thing happened to a well-known
lady of high rank : she, too, came out from seeing him as white

276

as a sheet, bathed in tears and overcome with his predictions
and his sayings."

"Strange. But now does he still do the same?"
, "It's strictly prohibited. There have been marvellous
instances. A young comet, the hope and joy of a distin-
guished family, mocked at him. 'What are you laughing at?'
said the old man, angered. 'In three days' time you will be
like this 1 ' and he crossed his arms over his bosom to signify a
corpse."

"Well?"

"I don't venture to believe it, but they say his prediction
came true. He has a gift, Vassily Mihalitch. . . . You are
pleased to smUe at my guileless story. I know that you are
greatly ahead of me in culture; but I believe in him; he's not a
charlatan. Pushkin himself mentions a similar case in his
works."

"H'ml I don't want to contradict you. I think you said
he's not living alone?"

"I don't know ... I believe his daughter is with him."

"Daughter?"

"Yes, or perhaps his wife; I know there is some woman with
him. I have had a passing glimpse of her, but I did not notice."

"H'm! Strange ..."

The young man fell to musing, Yaroslav Ilyitch to tender
contemplation of him. He was touched both at seeing an old
friend and at having satisfactorily told him something very
interesting. He sat sucking his pipe with his eyes fixed on
Vassily Mihalitch; but suddenly he jumped up in a fluster.

"A whole hour has f)assed and I forgot the time! Dear
Vassily Mihalitch, once more I thank the lucky chance that
brought us together, but it is time for me to be off. Will you
allow me to visit you in your learned retreat?"

"Please do, I shall be delighted. I will come and see you,
too, when I have a chance."

"That's almost too pleasant to believe. You gratify me, you
gratify me unutterably 1 You would not believe how you have
delighted me!"

They went out of the restaurant. Sergeyev was already
flying to meet them and to report in a hurried sentence that
Vilyam Emelyanovitch was pleased to be driving out. A
pair of spirited roans in a smart light gig did, in fact, come into
sight. The trace horse was particularly fine. Yaroslav Ilyitch
pressed his best friend's hand as though in a vice, touched his

277

hat and set off to meet the flying gig. On the way he turned
round once or twice to nod farewells to Ordynov.

Ordynov felt so tired, so exhausted in every limb, that he
could scarcely move his legs. He managed somehow to crawl
home. At the gate he was met again by the porter, who had
been dihgently watching his parting from Yaroslav Ilyitch, and
beckoning him from a distance. But the young man passed
him by. At the door of his flat he ran full tilt against a little
grey-headed figure coming out from Murin's room, looking on
the ground.

"Lord forgive my transgressions!" whispered the figure,
skipping on one side with the springiness of a cork.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, I humbly thank you for your civility. . . . Oh, Lord,
Lord!"

The meek little man, groaning and moaning and muttering
something edifying to himself, went cautiously down the stairs.
This was the "master" of the house, of whom the porter stood
in such awe. Only then Ordynov remembered that he had seen
him for the first time, here at Murin's, when he was moving
into the lodging.

He felt unhinged and shaken; he knew that his imaginatiffli
and impressionabilify were strained to the utmost pitch, and
resolved not to trust himself. By degrees he sank into a sort of
apathy. A heavy oppressive feeling weighed upon his chest.
His heart ached as though it were sore all over, and his whole
soul was full of dumb, comfortless tears.

He fell again upon the bed which she had made him, and
began Ustening again. He heard two breathings : one the heavy
broken breathing of a sick man, the other soft but uneven,
as though also stirred by emotion, as though that heart was
beating with the same yearning, with the same passion. At
times he heard the rustle of her dress the faint stir of her soft
light steps, and even that faint stir of her feet echoed with a
vague but agonisingly sweet pang in his heart. At last he
seemed to distinguish sobs, rebelUous sighs, and at last, praying
again. He knew that she was kneeling before the ikon, wring-
ing her hands in a frenzy of despair! . . . Who was she? For
whom was she praying? By what desperate passion was her
heart torn? Why did it ache and grieve and pour itself out in
such hot and hopeless tears?

He began to recall her words. All that she had said to him
was still ringing in his ears like-music, and his heart lovingly

278

responded with a vague heavy throb at every recollection,
every word of hers as he devoutly repeated it. . . . For an ^
instant a thought flashed through his mind that he had
dreamed all this. But at the same moment his whole being
ached in swooning anguish as the impression of her hot breath,
her words, her kiss rose vividly agedn in his imagination. He
closed his eyes and sank into obUvion. A clock struck some-
where; it was getting late; twilight was falling. —

It suddenly seemed to him ttiat she was bending over him
again, that she was looking into his eyes with her exquisitely
clear eyes, wet with sparkling tears of serene, happy joy, soft
and bright as the infinite turquoise vault of heaven at hot
midday. Her face beamed with such triumphant peace; her
smile was warm with such solemnity of infinite bliss; she leaned
with such sympathy, with such childlike impulsiveness on his
shoulder that a moan of joy broke from his exhausted bosom.
She tried to tell him something, caressingly she confided some-
thing to him. Again it was as though heartrending music smote
upon his hearing. Greedily he drank in the air, warm,
electrified by her near breathing. In anguish he stretched out
his arms, sighed, opened his eyes. . . . She stood before him,
bending down to his face, all pale as from fesir, all in tears,
all quivering with emotion. She was saying something to him,
entreating him with half-bare arms, clasping and wringing her
hands; hie folded her in his arms, she quivered on his
bosom . . .

PART II
CHAPTER I

WHAT is it? What is the matter with you?" said
Ordynov, waking up completely, still pressing her in
his strong, warm embrace. "What is the matter with you,
Katerina? What is it, my love?"

She sobbed softly with downcast eyes, hiding her flushed face
on his breast. For a long while she could not speak and kept
trembling as though in terror.

"I don't know, I don't know," she said at last, in a hardly
audible voice, gasping for breath, and scarcely able to
articulate. "I don't know how I came here . . ." She clasped

279

him even more tightly, with even more intensity, and in a
violent irrepressible rush of feeling, kissed his Moulder, his
hands, his chest; at last, as though in despair, she hid her face
in her hands, fell on her knees, and buried her head in his
knees. When Ordynov, in inexpressible anguish, lifted her up
impatiently and made her sit down beside him, her whole face
glowed with a full flush of shame, her weeping eyes sought
forgiveness, and the smile that, in spite of herself, played on
her lip could scarcely subdue the violence of her new feeling.
Now she seemed again frightened, mistrustfully she pushed
away his hand, and, with drooping head, answered his hurried
questions in a fearful whisper.

"Perhaps you have had a terrible dream?" said Ordynov.
"Perhaps you have seen some vision . . . Yes? Perhaps he
has frightened you. ... He is delirious and unconscious.
Perhaps he has said something that was not for you to hear?
Did you hear something? Yes?"

"No, I have not been asleep," answered Katerina, stifling
her emotion with an effort. "Sleep did not come to me, he has
been silent all the while and only once he called me. I went
up, called his name, spoke to him; I was frightened; he did not
wake and did not hear me. He is terribly sick; the Lord succour
him! Then misery came upon my heart, bitter misery! I
prayed and prayed and then this came upon me."

"Hush, Katerina, hush, my life, hushl You were frightened
yesterday. ..."

"No, I was not frightened yesterday! . . ."
"Has it ever been like this with you at other times?"
"Yes." And again she trembled all over and huddled up
to him like a child. "You see," she said, repressing her sobs,
"it was not for nothing that I have come to you, it was not
for nothing that I could not bear to stay alone," she repeated,
gratefully pressing his hands. "Enough, enough shedding
tears over other people's sorrows! Save them for a dark day
when you are lonely and cast down and there is no one with
you! . . . Listen, have you ever had a love?"
"No. ... I never knew a love before you. . . ."
"Before me? . . . You call me your love?"
She suddenly looked at him as though surprised, would have
said something, but then was silent and looked down. By
degrees her whole face suddenly flushed again a glowing
crimson; her eyes shone more brightly through the forgotten
tears still warm on her eyelashes, and it could be seen that

280

some question was hovering on her lips. With bashful shy-
ness she looked at him once or twice and then looked down
again.

"No, it is not for me to be your first love," she said. "No,
no," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully, while the smile
stole gently again over her face. "No," she said, at last, laugh-
ing; "it's not for me, my own, to be your love."

At that point she glanced at him, but there was suddenly
such sadness reflected in her face, such hopeless sorrow
suddenly overshadowed all her features, such despair all at
once surged up from within, from her heart, that Ordynov was
overwhelmed by an unaccountable, painful feehng of com-
passion for her mj^sterious grief and looked at her with
indescribable distress.

"Listen to what I say to you," she said in a voice that wrung
his heart, pressing his hands in hers, struggling to stifle her
sobs. "Heed me well, Hsten, my joy! You caJm your heart
and do not love me as you love me now. It will be better for
you, your heart will be lighter and gladder, and you will
guard yourself from a fell foe and wiU win a sister fond. I wiU
come and see you as you please, fondle you and take no shame
upon myself for making friends with you. I was with you
for two days when you lay in that cruel sickness ! Get to know
your sister! It is not for nothing that we have sworn to be
brother and sister, it is not for nothing that I prayed and wept
to the Holy Mother for you! You won't get another sister!
You may go all round the world, you may get to know the
whole earth and not find another love like mine, if it is love
your heart wants. I wiU love you warmly, I will always love
you as I do now, and I wiU love you because your soul is pure
and clean cind can be seen through; because when first I
glanced at you, at once I knew you were the guest of my
house, the longed-for guest, and it was not for nothing that
you wanted to come to us; I love you because when you look
at me your eyes are full of love and speak for your heart, and
when they say an3Hliing, at once I know of aU that is within
you and long to give my life for your love, my freedom,
because it is sweet to be even a slave to the man whose heart
I have found. . . . But my life is not mine but another's . . .
and my freedom is bound! Take me for a sister and be a
brother to me and take me to your heart when misery, when
cruel weakness falls upon me; only do so that I have no shame
to come to you and sit through the long night with you as now.

281

Do you hear me? Is your heart opened to me? Do you under-
stand what I have been saying to you? ..."

She tried to say something more, glanced at him, laid her
hand on his shoulder and at last sank helpless on his bosom.
Her voice died away in convulsive, passionate sobbing, her
bosom heaved, and her face flushed Uke an evening sunset.

"My life," whispered Ord}mov; everything was dark before
his eyes and he could hardly breathe. "My joy," he said, not
knowing what he was saying, not understanding himself,
trembling lest a breath should break the spell, should destroy
everything that was happening, which he took rather for a
vision than reality: so misty was everything around him! "1
don't know, I don't understand you, I don't remember what
you have just said to me, my mind is darkened, my heart
aches, my queen!"

At this point his voice broke with emotion. She clung more
tightly, more warmly, more fervently to him. He got up, no
longer able to le^train himself; shattered, exhausted by ecstasy,
he fell on his Ifffees. Convulsive sobs broke agonisingly from
his breSst at la^, and the voice that came straight from his
heart quivered like a harp-string, from the fulness of unfathom-
able ecstasy and bliss.

"Who are you, who are you, my own? Where do you come
from, my darling?" he said, trying to stifle his sobs. "From
what heaven did you fly into my sphere? It's like a dream
about me, I cannot believe in you. Don't check me, let me
speak, let me tell you all, all! I have long wanted to speak
. . . Who are you, who are you, my joy? How did you find
my heart? Tell me; have you long been my sister? . . . Tell
me everything about yourself, where you have been till now.
Tell me what the place was called where you lived; what did
you love there at first? what rejoiced you? what grieved you?
.... Was the air warm? was the sky clear? . . . Who were
dear to you? who loved you before me? to whom did your
soul yearn first? . . . Had you a mother? did she pet you as
a child, or did you look round upon life as sohtary as I did?
Tell me, were you always like this? What were your dreams?
what were your visions of the future? what was fulfilled and
what was unfulfilled with you? — ^tell me everything. ... For
whom did your maiden heart yearn first, and for what did you
give it? Tell me, what must I give you for it? what must I give
you for yourself? . . . Tell me, my darling, my light, my
sister; tell me, how am I to win your heart? . . ."

282

Then his voice broke again, and he bowed his head. But
when he raised his eyes, dumb horror froze his heart and the
hair stood up on his head.

Katerina was sitting pale as a sheet. She was looking with a
fixed stare into the air, her lips were blue as a corpse's auid her
eyes were dimmed by a mute, agonising woe. She stood up
slowly, took two steps forward and, with a piercing wail, flung
herself down before the ikon. . . . Jerky, incoherent wor(k
broke from her throat. She lost consciousness. Shaken with
horror Ordynov lifted her up and carried her to his bed; he
stood over her, frantic. A minute later she opened her eyes,
sat up in the bed, looked about her and seized his hand. She
drew him towards her, tried to whisper something with her lips
that were still pale, but her voice would not obey her. At last
she burst into a flood of tears; the hot drops scalded Ordynov's
chilly hand.

"It's hard for me, it's hard for me now; my last hour is at
hand!" she said at last in desperate anguish.

She tried to say something else, but her falter .g tongue could
not utter a word. She looked in despair at OrJynov, who did
not understand her. He bent closer to her and listened. . . .
At last he heard her whisper distinctly :

"I am corrupted — ^they have corrupted me, they have ruined
me!"

Ordynov lifted his head and looked at her in wild amazement.
Some hideous thought flashed across his mind. Katerina saw
the convulsive workings of his face.

"Yes! Corrupted," she went on; "a wicked man corrupted
me. It is he who has ruined me ! ... I have sold my soul to
him. Why, why did you speak of my mother? Why did you
want to torture me? God, God be your judge! ..."

A minute later she was softly weeping; Ordjmov's heart was
beating and aching in mortal anguish.

"He sa}^," she whispered in a restrained, mysterious voice,
"that when he dies he will come and fetch my sinful soul. . . .
I am his, I have sold my soul to him. He tortures me, he reads
to me in his books. Here, look at his book ! here is his book, v
He says I have committed the unpardonable sin. Look,
look ..."

And she showed him a book. Ordynov did not notice where
it had come from. He took it mechanically — ^it was all in manu-
script like the old heretical books which he had happened to see
before, but now he was incapable of looking or concentrating

283 ^

his attention on anything else. The book fell out of his hands.
He softly embraced Katerina, trying to bring her to reason.
"Hush, hush," he said; "they have frightened you. I am with
you; rest with me, my own, my love, my light."

"You know nothing, nothing," she said, warmly pressing his
hand. "I am always like this! I am always afraid. . . . I've
tortured you enough, enough! ..."

"I go to him then," she began a minute later, taking a
breath; "sometimes he simply comforts me with his words,
sometimes he takes his book, the biggest, and reads it over me
— ^he always reads such grim, threatening things I I don't know
what, and don't understand every word; but fear comes upon
me; and when I listen to his voice, it is as though it were not
he speaking, but someone else, someone evil, someone you
could not soften anyhow, could not entreat, and one's heart
grows so heavy and bums. . . . Heavier than when this
misery comes upon me!"

"Don't go to him. Why do you go to him?" said Ordynov,
hardly conscious of his own words.

"Why have I come to you? If you ask — I don't know
either. . . . But he keeps saying to me, 'Pray, pray I ' Some-
times I get up in the dark night and for a long time, for hours
together, I pray; sometimes sleep overtakes me, but fear always
wakes me, always wakes me and then I alwaj^ fancy that a
storm is gathering round me, that harm is coming to me, that
evil things will tear me to pieces and torment me, that my
prayers will not reach the Scdnts, and that they will not save me
from cruel grief. My soul is being torn, my whole body seems
breaking to pieces through crying. . . . Tlien I begin praying
again, and pray and pray until the Holy Mother looks down on
me from the ikon, more lovingly. Then I get up and go away
to sleep, utterly* shattered; sometimes I wake up on the floor,
on my knees before the ikon. Then sometimes he wakes, calls
me, begins to soothe me, caress me, comfort me, and then I
feel better, and if any trouble comes I am not afraid with him.
He is powerful ! His word is mighty ! "

"But what trouble, what sort of trouble have you?" . . .
And Ordynov wrung his hands in despair.

Katerina turned fearfully pale. She looked at him like one
condemned to death, without hope of pardon.

"Me? I am under a curse, I'm a murderess; my mother
cursed me! I was the ruin of my own mother! ..."

Ordynov embraced her without a word. She nestled

284

tremulously to him. He felt a convulsive shiver pass all over
her, and it semed as though her soul were parting from her
body.

"I hid her in the damp earth," she said, overwhebned by the
horror of her recollections, and lost in visions of her irrevocable
past. "I have long wanted to tell it; he always forbade me
with supplications, upbraidings, and angry words, and at times
he himself will arouse all my anguish at though he were my
enemy and adversary. At night, even as now — -it all comes
into my mind. Listen, listen I It was long ago, very long ago"'
I don't remember when, but it is aU before me as though it had
been yesterday, like a dream of yesterday, devouring my heart
aU night. Misery makes the time twice as long. Sit here, sit
here beside me; I wiU tell you all my sorrow; may I be struck"
down, accursed as I am, by a mother's curse. ... I am
putting my life into your hands ..."

Ordynov tried to stop her, but she folded her hands, beseech-
ing his love to attend, and then, with even greater agitation
began to speak. Her story was incoherent, the turmoil of her
spirit could be felt in her words, but Ordynov understood it
all, because her life had become his life, her grief his grief, and
because her foe stood visible before him, taking shape and
growing up before bim with every word she uttered and, as
it were, with inexhaustible strength crushing his heart and
cursing him mahgnantly. His blood was in a turmoil, it flooded
his heart and otecured his reason. The wicked old man of
his dream (Ordynov believed this) was living before him.

"Well, it was a night Uke this," Katerina began, "only
stormier, and the wind in our forest howled as I had never
heard it before ... it was in that night that my ruin began !
An oak was broken before our window, and an old grey-headed
beggar came to our door, and he said that he remembered that
Oc^ as a little child, and that it was the same then as when the
wind blew it down. . . . That night — as I remember now — ^my
father's barge was wrecked on the river by a storm, and though
he was afficted with illness, he drove to the place as soon as the
fishermen ran to us at the factory. Mother and I were sitting
alone. I was asleep. She was sad about something and weeping
bitterly . . . and I knew what about! She had just been ill,
she was still pale and kept telling me to get ready her shroud.
. . . Suddenly, at midnight, we heard a knock at the gate; I
jumped up, the blood rushed to my heart; mother cried out.
... I did not look at her, I was afraid. I took a lantern and

285 •'*

went myself to open the gate. ... It was he! 1 felt frightened,
because I was always frightened when he came, and it was so
with me from childhood ever smce I remembered anything!
At that time he had not white hair; his beard was black as
pitch, his eyes burnt like coals; until that time he had never
once looked at me kindly. He asked me, 'Ts your mother at
home?' Shutting the little gate, I answered tliat 'Father was
not at home.' He said, 'I know,' and suddenly looked at me,
looked at me in such a way ... it was the first time he had
looked at me like that. I went on, but he still stood. 'Why
don't you come in?' 'I am thinking.' By then we were going
up to the room. 'Why did you say that father was not at home
when I asked you whether mother was at home?' I said
nothing. . . . Mother was terror-stricken — she rushed to him.
... He sccLTcely glanced at her. I saw it all. He was all wet
and shivering; the storm had driven him fifteen miles, but
whence he came and where he Uved neither mother nor I ever
knew; we had not seen him for nine weeks. ... He threw
down his cap, pulled off his gloves — did not pray to the ikon,
nor bow to his hostess — ^he sat down by the fire ..."

Katerina passed her hand over her face, as though something
were weighing upon her and oppressing her, but a minute later
she raised her head and began again :

"He began talking in Tatar to mother. Mother knew it, I
don't understand a word. Other times when he came, they sent
me away; but this time mother dau'ed not say a word to her
own child. The unclean spirit gained possession of my soul
and I looked at my mother, exalting mjrseU in my heart. I
saw they were looking at me, they were talking about me; she
began crying. I saw him clutch at his knife and more than
once of late I had seen him clutch at the knife when he was
talking with mother. I jumped up and caught at his belt, tried
to tear the evil knife away from him. He clenched his teeth,
cried out and tried to beat me back; he struck me in the breast
but did not shake me off. I thought I should die on the spot,
there was a mist before my eyes. I fell on the floor, but did
not cry out. Though I could hardly see, I saw him. He took
off his belt, tucked up his sleeve, with the hand with which he
had struck me took out the knife and gave it to me. 'Here, cut
it away, amuse yourself over it, even as I insulted you, while
I, proud girl, will bow down to the earth to you for it.' I laid
aside the knife; the blood began to stifle me, I did not look
at him. I remember I laughed without opening my lips and

286

looked threateningly straight into mother's mournful eyes, and
the shameless laugh never left my Ups, while mother sat pale,
deathlike . . ."

With strained attention Ordynov listened to her incoherent
story. By degrees her agitation subsided after the first outburst;
her words grew calmer. The poor creature was completely
carried away by her memories and her misery was spread over
their limitless expanse.

"He took his cap without bowing. I took the lantern again
to see him out instead of mother, who, though she was ill, would
have foUowed him. We reached the gates. I opened the little
gate to him, drove away the dogs in silence. I see him take off
his cap and bow to me, I see hun feel in his bosom, take out a
red morocco box, open the catch. I look in — ^big pearls, an
offering to me. 'I have a beauty,' says he, 'in the town. I got
it to offer to her, but I did not take it to her; take it, fair
maiden, cherish your beauty; take them, though you crush
them imder foot.' I took them, but I did not want to stamp
on them, I did not want to do them too much honour, but I
took them like a viper, not sajdng a word. I came in and set
them on the table before mother — ^it was for that I took them.
Mother was silent for a minute, aU white as a handkerchief. She
speaks to me as though she fears me. 'What is this, Katya?'
and I answer, 'The merchant brought them for you, my own —
I know nothing.' I see the tears stream from her eyes. I see
her gasp for breath. 'Not for me, Katya, not for me, wicked
daughter, not for me.' I remember she said it so bitterly, so
bitterly, as though she were weeping out her whole soul. I
raised my eyes, I wanted to throw myself at her feet, but sud-
denly the evil one prompted me. 'Well, if not to you, most
likely to father; I will give them to him when he comes back;
I will say the merchants have been, they have forgotten their
wares . . .' Then how she wept, my own. ... 'I will tell
him myself what merchants have been, and for what wares
they came. ... I will tell him whose daughter you are, whose
bastard child! You are not my daughter now, you serpent's
fry! You are my accursed child ! ' I say nothing, tears do not
come me to me. ... I went up to my room and all night
I listened to the storm, while I fitted my thoughts to its
raging.

"Meanwhile, five days passed by. Towards evening after
five days, father came in, surly and menacing, and he had been
stricken by illness on the way. I saw his arm was bound up,

287

I guessed that his enemy had waylaid him upon the road, his
enemy had worn him out and brought sickness upon him. I
knew, too, who was his enemy, I knew it all. He did not say a
word to mother, he did not ask about me. He called together
all the workmen, made them leave the factory, and guard the
house from the evil eye. I felt in my heart, in that hour, that
all was not well with the house. We waited, the night came,
another stormy, snowy one, and dread came over my soul.
I opened the window; my face was hot, my eyes were weeping,
my restless heart was burning; I was on fire. I longed to he
away from that room, far away to the land of hght, where
the thunder and lightning are bom. My maiden heart was
beating and beating. . . . Suddenly, in the dead of night, I
was dozing, or a mist had fallen over my soul, and confounded
it all of a sudden — I hear a knock at the window : 'Open ! ' I
look, there was a man at the window, he had climbed up by
a rope. I knew at once who the visitor was, I opened the
window and let him into my lonely room. It was he! Without
taking off his hat, he sat down on the bench, he panted and
drew his breath as though he had been pursued. I stood in
the comer and knew myself that I turned white all over. 'Is
your father at home?' 'He is.' 'And your mother?' 'Mother
is at home, too.' 'Be silent now; do you hear?' 'I hear.'
'What?' 'A whistle under the window!' 'Well, fair maid,
do you want to cut your foe's head off? Call your father, take
my life? I am at your maiden mercy; here is the cord, tie it,
if your heart bids you; avenge yourself for your insult.' I am
silent. 'Well? Speak, my joy.' 'What do you want?' 'I want
my enemy to be gone, to take leave for good and all of the old
love, and to lay my heart at the feet of a new one, a fair maid
like you. . . .' I laughed; and I don't know how his evil
words went to my heart. 'Let me, fair maid, walk downstairs,
test my courage, pay homage to my hosts.' I trembled all over,
my teeth knocked together, but my heart was like a red-hot
iron. I went. I opened the door to him, I let him into the
house, only on the threshold with an effort I brought out,
'Here, take your pearls and never give me a gift again,' and I
threw the box after him."

Here Katerina stopped to take breath. At one moment she
was pale and trembling like a leaf, at the next the blood rushed
to her head, and now, when she stopped, her cheeks glowed
with fire, her eyes flashed through her tears, and her bosom
heaved with her laboured, uneven breathing. But suddenly she

288

I turned pale again and her voice sank with a mournful and
tremulous quiver.

"Then I was left alone and the storm seemed to wrap me
about. All at once I hear a shout, I hear workmen run across
the yard to the factory, I hear them say, 'The factory is on
fire.' I kept in hiding; all ran out of the house; I was left with
mother; I knew that she was parting from life, that she had
been lying for the last three days on her death-bed. I knew
it, accursed daughter ! . . . All at once a cry imder my room,
a faint cry like a child when it is frightened in its sleep, and
then all was silent. I blew out the candle, I was as chill as ice,
I hid my face in my hands, I was afraid to look. Suddenly
I hear a shout close by, I hear the men running from the
factory. I hung out of the window, I see them bearing my dead
father, I hear them saj^ing among themselves, 'He stumbled, he
feU down the stairs into a red-hot cauldron; so the devil must
have pushed him down.' I fell upon my bed; I waited, all
numb with terror, and I do not know for whom or what I
waited, only I was overwhelmed with woe in that hour. I don't
remember how long I waited; I remember that suddenly every-
thing began rocking, my head grew heavy, my eyes were smart-
ing with smoke and I was glad that my end was near. Suddenly
I felt someone lift me by the shoulders. I looked as best I
could; he was singed all over and his kaftan, hot to the touch,
was smoking.

" 'I've come for you, fair maid; lead me away from trouble
as before you led me into trouble; I have lost my soul for your
sake, no prayers of mine can undo this accursed night 1 Maybe
we will pray together!' He laughed, the wicked man. 'Show
me,' said he, 'how to get out without passing p>eopler I took
his hand and led him after me. We went through the corridor —
the keys were with me — I opened the door to the store-room
and pointed to the window. The window looked into the
garden, he seized me in his powerful arms, embraced me and
leapt with me out of the window. We ran together, hand-in-
hand, we ran together for a long time. We looked, we were in
a thick, dark forest. He began listening : 'There's a chase eifter
us, Katya! There's a chase after us, fair maid, but it is not
for us in this hour to lay down our lives 1 Kiss me, fair maid,
for love and everlasting happiness!' 'Why are your hands
covered with blood? ' 'My hands covered with blood, my own?
I stablaed your dogs; they barked too loud at a late guest.
Come along!'

289

"We ran on again; we saw in the path my father's horse, he
had broken his bridle and ran out of the stable; so he did not
want to be burnt. 'Get on it, Katya, with me; God has sent
us help.' I was silent. 'Won't you? I am not a heathen,
not an unclean pagan; here, I wiU cross myself if you like,' and
here he made the sign of the cross. I got on the horse, huddled
up to him and forgot everything on his bosom, as though a
dream had come over me, and when I woke I saw that we were
standing by a broad, broad river. He got off the horse, lifted
me down and went off to the reeds where his boat was hidden.
We were getting in. 'Well, farewell, good horse; go to a new
master, the old masters aR forsake you!' I ran to father's
horse and embraced him warmly at parting. Then we got in,
he took the oars and in an instant we lost sight of the shore.
And when we could not see the shore, I saw him lay down the
oars and look about him, all over the water.

" 'Hail,' he said, 'stormy river-mother, who giveth drink to
God's people and food to me! Say, hast thou guarded my
goods, are my wares safe, while I've been away?' I sat mute, I
cast down my eyes to my bosom; my face burned with shame
as with a flame. And he: 'Thou art welcome to take all,
stormy and insatiable river, only let me keep my vow and
cherish my priceless pearl! Drop but one word, fair maid,
send a ray of sunshine into the storm, scatter the dark night
with light!'

"He laughed as he spoke, his heart was burning for me, but
I could not bear his jeers for shame; I longed to say a word, but
was afraid and sat dumb. 'Well, tiien, be it so ! ' he answered
to my timid tnought; he spoke as though in sorrow, as though
grief had come upon him, too. 'So one can take nothing by
force. God be with you, you proud one, my dove, my fair
maid! It seems, strong is your hatred for me, or I do not
find favour in your clear eyes ! ' I listened and was seized by
spite, seized by spite and love; I steeled my heart. I said:
'Pleasing or not pleasing you came to me; it is not for me
to know that, but for another senseless, shameless girl who
shamed her maiden room in the dark night, who sold her soul
for mortal sin and could not school her frantic heart; and for
my sorrowing tears to know it, and for him who, like a thief,
brags of another's woe and jeers at a maiden's heart ! ' I said
it, and I could bear no more. I wept. ... He said nothing;
looked at me so that I trembled Uke a leaf. 'Listen to me,'
said he, 'fair maid,' and his eyes burned strangely. 'It is not a

200

vain word I say, I make you a solemn vow. As much happiness
as you give me, so much will I be a gentleman, and if ever you
do not love me — do not speak, do not drop a word, do not
trouble, but stir only your sable eyebrow, turn your black eye,
stir only your little finger and I will give you back youj love
with golden freedom; only, my proud, haughty beauty, then
there will be an end to my life too.' And then edl my flesh
laughed at his words. . . .

At this point Katerina's story was interrupted by deep
emotion; she 'took breath, smiled at her new fancy and would
have gone on, but suddenly her sparkling eyes met Ord5mov's
feveriSi gaze fixed on her. She started, would have said some-
thing, but the blood flooded her face. . . . She hid her face in
her hands and fell upon the pillow at though in a swoon.
Ordynov was quivering aU over I An agonising feeling, an un-
bearable, unaccountable agitation ran like poison through all his
veins and grew with every word of Katerina's story; a hopeless
yearning, a greedy and unendurable passion took possession
of his imagination and troubled his feelings, but at the same
time his heart was more and more oppressed by bitter, infinite
sadness. At moments he longed to shriek to Katerina to be
silent, longed to fling himself at her feet and beseech her by his
tears to give him back his former agonies of love, his former
pure, unquestioning yearning, and he regretted the tears that
had long dried on his cheeks. There was an ache at his heart
which was painfully oppressed by fever and could not give
his tortured soul the relief of tears. He did not understand what
Katerina was telling him, and his love was frightened of the
feeling that excited the pmor woman. He cursed his passion at
that moment; it smothered him, it exhausted him, and he felt
as though molten lead were running in his veins instead of
blood.

"Ach, that is not my grief," said Katerina, suddenly raising
her head. "What I have told you just now is not my sorrow,"
she went on in a voice that rang like copper from a sudden new
feeling, while her heart was rent with secret, unshed tears.
"That is not my grief, that is not my anguish, not my woe!
What, what do I care for my mother, though I shall never have
another mother in this world ! What do I care that she cursed
me in her last terrible hour? What do I care for my old golden
life, for my warm room, for my maiden freedom? What do
I care that I have sold myself to the evil one and abandoned
my soul to the destroyer, that for the sake of happiness I have

291

committed the unpardonable sin?, Ach, that is not my grief,
though in that great is my ruin I fBut what is bitter to me and
rends my heart is that I am his sHaiSeless slave, that my shame
and disgrace are dear to me, shameless as I am, but it is dear
to my greedy heart to remember my sorrow as though it were
joy and happiness^hat is my grief, that there is no strength
in it and no angefior my wrongs! ..."

The poor creature gasped for breath and a convulsive, hys-
terical sob cut short her words, her hot, laboured breath burned
her Ups, her bosom heaved and sank and her eyes flashed with
incomprehensible indignation. But her face was radiant with
such fascination at tbat moment, every line, every muscle
quivered with such a passionate flood of feeling, such insufier-
able, incredible beauty that Ordynov's black thoughts died
away at once and the pure sadness in his soul was silenced. And
his heart burned to be pressed to her heart and to be lost with
it in frenzied emotion, to throb in harmony with the same
storm, the same rush of infinite passion, and even to swoon
with it. Katerina met Ordynov's troubled eyes and smiled so
that his heart burned with redoubled fire. He scarcely knew
what he was doing.

"Spare me, have pity on me," he whispered, controlling his
trembling voice, bending down to her, leaning with his hand on
her shoulder and looking close in her eyes, so close that their
breathing was mingled in one. "You are killing me. I do not
know your sorrow and my soul is troubled. . . . What is it to
me what your heart is weeping over I Tell me what you want—
I will do it. Come with me, let me go; do not kill me, do not
murder me! . . ."

Katerina looked at him immovably, the tears dried on her
burning cheek. She wanted to interrupt him, to take his hand,
tried to say something, but could not find the words. A strange
smile came upon her hps, as though laughter were breaking
through that smile.

"I have not told you all, then," she said at last in a broken
voice; "only will you hear me, will you hear me, hot heart?
Listen to your sister. You have learned little of her bitter grief.
I would have told you how I lived a year with him, but I will
not. ... A year passed, he went away with his comrades down
the river, and I was left with one he called his mother to wait
for him in the harbour. I waited for him one month, two, and
I met a young merchant, and I glanced at him and thought of
my golden years gone by. 'Sister, darling,' said he, when he

292

had spoken two words to me, 'I am Alyosha, your destined
betroliied; the old folks betrothed us as children; you have
forgotten me — ^think, I am from your parts.' 'And what do they
say of me in your parts? ' 'Folk's gossip says that you behaved
dishonourably, forgot your maiden modesty, made friends with
a brigand, a murderer,' Alyosha said, laughing. 'And what did
you say of me?' 'I meant to say many things when I came
here' — and his heart was troubled. 'I meant to say many
things, but now that I have seen you my hcEirt is dead within
me, you have slain me,' he said. 'Buy my soul, too, take it,
though you mock at my heart and my love, fair maiden. I am
an orphan now, my own master, and my soul is my own, not
another's. I have not sold it to anyone, like somebody who has
blotted out her memory; it's not enough to buy the heart, I
give it for nothing, and it is clear it is a good bargain.' I
laughed, and more than once, more than twice he talked to me;
a whole month he hved on the place, gave up his merchandise,
forsook his people and Wcis all alone. I was sorry for his lonely
tears. So I said to him one morning, "Wait for me, Alyosha,
lower down the harbour, as night comes on; I will go with you
to your home, I am weary of my life, forlorn.' So night came
on, I tied up a bundle and my soul ached and worked within
me. Behold, my master walks in without a word or warning.
'Good-day, let us go, there wiU be a storm on the river and the
time will not wait.' I followed him; we came to the river and
it was far to reach his mates. We look: a boat and one we
knew rowing in it as though waiting for someone. 'Good-day,
Alyosha; God be your help. Why, are you belated at the
harbour, are you in haste to meet your vessels? Row me, good
man, with the mistress, to our mates, to our place. I have let
my boat go and I don't know how to swim.' 'Get in,' said
Alyosha, and my whole soul swooned when I heard his voice.
'Get in with the mistress, too, the wind is for all, and in my
bower there wiU be room for you, too.' We got in; it was a dark
night, the stars were in hiding, the wind howled, the waves
rose high and we rowed out a mile from shore — all three were
silent.

" 'It's a storm,' said my master, 'and it is a storm that bodes
no good ! I have never seen such a storm on the river in my life
as is raging now ! It is too much for our boat, it will not bear
three!' 'No, it will not,' answered Alyosha, 'and one of us,
it seems, turns out to be one too many,' he says, and his voice
quivers like a harp-string. 'Well, Alyosha, I knew you as a

293

little child, your father was my mate, we ate at each other's
boards — tell me, Alyosha, can you reach the shore without the
boat or will you perish for nothing, will you lose your life?'
'I cannot reach it. And you, too, good man, if it is your luck
to have a drink of water, will you reach the shore or not?' 'I
cannot reach it, it is the end for my soul. I cannot hold out
against the stormy river I Listen, Katerina, my precious pearl!
I remember such a night, but the waves were not tossing, the
stars were shining, and the moon was bright. ... I simply
want to ask you, have you forgotten?' 'I remember,' said I.
'Well, since you have not forgotten it, well, you have not
forgotten the compact when a bold man told a fair maiden to
take back her freedom from one unloved — eh?' 'No, I have
not forgotten that either,' I said, more dead than alive. 'Ah,
you have not forgotten ! Well, now we are in hard case in the
boat. Has not his hour come for one of us? Tell me, my own,
tell me, my dove, coo to us like a dove your tender word . . .'"

"I did not say my word then," whispered Katerina, turning
pale. . . .

"Katerina ! " A hoarse, hollow voice resounded above them.
Ordynov started. In the doorway stood Murin. He was barely
covered with a fur rug, pale as death, and he was gazing at
them with almost senseless eyes. Katerina turned paler and
paler and she, too, gazed fixedly at him, as though spellbound.

"Come to me, Katerina," whispered the sick man, in a voice
hardly audible, and went out of the room. Katerina still gazed
fixedly into the air, as though the old man had still been stand-
ing before her. But suddenly the blood rushed glowing into her
pale cheek and she slowly got up from the bed. Ordynov
remembered their first meeting.

"Till to-morrow then, my tears!" she said, laughing
strangely; "till to-morrow! Remember at what point I stopped:
'Choose between the two; which is dear or not dear to you, fair
maid!' Will you remember, will you wait for one night?" she
repeated, laying her hand on his shoulder and looking at him
tenderly.

"Katerina, do not go, do not go to your ruin! He is mad,"
whispered Ordynov, trembhng for her.

"Katerina!" he heard through the partition.

"What? Will he murder me? no fear!" Katerina answered,
laughing: "Good-night to you, my precious heart, my warm
dove, my brother! " she said, tenderly pressing his head to her
bosom, while tears bedewed her face. "Those are my last tears.

294

Sleep away your sorrow, my darling, wake to-morrow to joy."
And she kissed him passionately.

"Katerina, Katerina!" whispered Ordynov, falling on his
knees before her and trying to stop her. "Katerina ! ' '

She turned round, nodded to hun, smihng, and went out of
the room. Ordynov heard her go in to Murin; he held his
breath, listening, but heard not a sound more. The old man
was silent or perhaps unconscious again. ... He would have
gone in to her there, but his legs staggered under him. . . .
He sank exhausted on the bed. . . .

CHAPTER II

FOR a long while he could not find out what the time was
when he woke. Whether it was the twilight of dawn or of
evening, it was still d8irk in his room. He could not decide how
long he had slept, but felt that his sleep was not healthy sleep.
Coming to himself, he passed his hand over his face as though
shaking off sleep and the visions of the night. But when he tried
to step on the floor he felt as though his whole body were shat-
tered, and his exhausted limbs refused to obey him. His head
ached and was going round, and he was alternately shivering
and feverish. Memory returned with consciousness and his heart
quivered when in one instant he lived through, in memory, the
whole of the past night. His heart beat as violently in response
to his thoughts, his sensations were as burning, as fresh, as
though not a night, not long hours, but one minute had passed
since Katerina had gone away. He felt as though his eyes were
still wet with tears — or were they new, fresh tears that rushed
like a spring from his burning soul? And, strange to say, his
agonies were even sweet to him, though he dimly felt all over
that he could not endure such violence of feeling again. There
was a moment when he was almost conscious of death, and was
ready to meet it as a welcome guest; his sensations were so over-
strained, his passion surged up with such violence on waking,
such ecstasy took possession of his soul that life, quickened hy
its intensity, seemed on the point of breaking, of being shat-
tered, of flickering out in one minute and being quenched for
ever. Almost at that instant, as though in answer to his anguish,
in answer to his quivering heart, the famiUar mellow, silvery
voice of Katerina rang out — ^like that inner music known to

205

man's soul in hours of joy, in hours of tranquil happiness.
Close beside him, almost over his pillow, began a song, at first
soft and melancholy . . . her voice rose and fell, dying away
abruptly as though hiding in itself, and tenderly crooning over
its anguish of unsatisfied, smothered desire hopelessly con-
cccded in the grieving heart; then again it flowed into a
nightingale's trills and, quivering and glowing with unrestrained
passion, melted into a perfect sea of ecstasy, a sea of mighty,
boundless sound, like the first moment of the bliss of love.

Ordynov distinguished the words, too. They were simple,
sincere, composed long ago with direct, calm, pure, clear feel-
ing, but he forgot them, he heard only the sounds. Through the
simple, naive verses of the song flashed other words resound-
ing with all the yearning that filled his bosom, responding to the
most secret subtleties of his passion, which he could not com-
prehend though they echoed to him clearly with full conscious-
ness of it. And at one moment he heard the last moan of a
heart swooning helplessly in passion, then he heard the joy of
a will and a spirit breaking its chains and rushing brightly and
freely into the boundless ocean of unfettered love. Then he
heard the first vow of the beloved, with fragrant shame at the
first blush on her face, with prayers, with tears, with mysterious
timid murmuring; then the passion of the Bacchante, proud
and rejoicing in its strength, unveiled, undisguised, turning
her drunken eyes about her with a ringing laugh . . .

Ordjoiov could not endure the end of &.e song, and he got
up from the bed. The song at once died away.

"Good-moming and good-day are over, my beloved,"
Katerina's voice rang out, "Good-evening to you; get up, come
in to us, walce up to bright joy; we expect you. I and the
master, both good people, your willing servants, quench hatred
with love, if your heart is stiU resentful. Say a friendly
word!" . . .

Ordynov had already gone out of his room at her first call
and scarcely realised that he was going into the landlord's bed-
room. The door opened before him and, bright as sunshine,
the golden smile of his strange landlady flashed upon him. At
that instant, he saw, he heard no one but her. In one moment
his whole hfe, his whole joy, melted into one thing in his heart
— ^the bright image of his Katerina.

"Two dawns have passed," she said, giving him her hands,
"since we said farewell; the second is dying now — ^look out of
the window. Like the two dawns in the soul of a maiden,"

296

Katerina added, laughing. "The one that flushes her face with
its first shame, when first her lonely maiden heart speaks in her
bosom, while the other, when a maiden forgets her first shame,
glows like fire, stifles her maiden heart, and drives the red blood
to her face. . . . Come, come into our home, good young man 1
Why do you stand in the doorway? Honour and love to you,
and a greeting from the master!"

With a laugh ringing Uke music, she took Ordynov's hand
and led him into the room. His heart was overwhelmed with
timidity. All the fever, aU the fire raging in his bosom was
quenched and died down in one instant, and for one instant
he dropped his eyes in confusion cind was afraid to look at her.
He felt that she was so marvellously beautiful that his heart
could not endure her burning eyes. He had never seen his
Katerina like this. For the first time laughter and gaiety were
spcirkling on her face, and drying the mournful tears on her
black eyelashes. His hand trembled in her hand. And if he
had raised his eyes he would have seen that Katerina, with a
triumphant smile, had fastened her clear eyes on his face,
which was clouded with confusion and passion.

"Get up, old man," she said at last, as though waking up;
"say a word of welcome to our guest, a guest who is like a
bro&er! Get up, you proud, unbending old man; get up, now,
take your guest by his white hand and make him sit down to
the table."

Ordynov raised his eyes and seemed only then to come to
himself. Only then he tihought of Murin. The old man's eyes,
looking as though dinmied by the approach of death, were
staring at him fixedly; and wilii a pang in his heart he remem-
bered those eyes gUttering at him last time from black over-
hanging brows contracted as now with pain and anger. There
was a slight dizziness in his head. He looked round him and
only then realised everything clearly and distinctly. Murin was
still lying on the bed, but he was partly dressed and had already
been up and out that morning. As before, he had a red kerchief
tied round his neck, he had slippers on his feet. His attack was
evidently over, only his face was terribly pale and yellow.
Katerina was standing by his bed, her hand leaning on the
table, watching them both intently. But the smile of welcome
did not leave her face. It seemed as though everything had
been done at a sign from her.

"Yes! it's you," said Murin, raising himself up and sitting
on the bed. "You are my lodger. I must beg your pardon, sir;

297

I have sinned and wronged you all unknowingly, pla37ing tricks
with my gun the other day. Who could tell that you, too,
were stricken by grievous sidcness? It happens to me at times,"
he added in a hoarse, ailing voice, frowning £ind unconsciously
looking away from Ordjoiov. "My trouble comes upon me like
a thief in the night without knocking at the gate! I almost
thrust a knife into her bosom the other day . . ."he brought
out, nodding towards Katerina. "I am ill, a fit comes, seizes
me — ^well, that's enough. Sit down — ^you will be oiu: guest."

C)rd3aiov was still staring at him intently.

"Sit down, sit down I" the old man touted impatiently;
"sit down, if that will please her! So you are brother and
sister, bom of the same mother I You are as fond of one
another as lovers!"

Ordynov sat down.

"You see what a fine sister you've got," the old man went
on,- laughing, and he showed two rows of white, perfectiy
sound teeth. "Be fond of one another, my dears. Is your sister
beautiful, sir? Tell me, answer! Come, look how her cheeks
are burning; come, look round, sing the praises of her beauty
to all the world, show that your heart is aching for her."

Ord3mov frowned and looked angrily at the old man, who
flinched under his eyes. A blind fury surged up in Ordynov's
heart. By some animal instinct he felt near him a mortal foe.
He could not understand what was happening to him, his
reason refused to serve him.

"Don't look," said a voice behind him.

Ordynov looked round.

"Don't look, don't look, I tell you, if the devil is tempting
you; have pity on your love," said Katerina, laughing, and
suddenly from behind she covered his eyes with her hands; then
at once took away her hands and hid her own face in them.
But the colour in her face seemed to show through her fingeis.
She removed her hands and, still glowing like fire, tried to meet
their laughter and inquisitive eyes brightly and without a
tremor. But both looked at her in silence — ^Ordjmov with the
stupefaction of love, as though it were the first time such
terrible beauty had stabbed his heart; the old man coldly and
attentively. Nothing was to be seen in his pale face, except
that his lips timied blue and quivered faintly.

Katerina went up to the old man, no longer laughing, and
began clearing away the books, papers, inkstand, everything
that was on the table and putting them all on the window-sill.

2g8

Her breathing was hurried and uneven, and from time to time
she drew an eager breath as though her heart were oppressed.
Her full bosom heaved and fell like a wave on the seashore.
She dropped her eyes and her pitchblack ej^elashes gleamed on
her bright cheeks like sharp needles. . . .

"A maiden queen," said the old man.

"My sovereign!" whispered Ordynov, quivering all over.
He came to his senses, feeling the old man's eyes upon him —
his glance flashed upon him for an instant like Ughtning —
greedily spiteful, coldly contemptuous. Ordynov would have
got up from his seat but some imseen power seemed to fetter
his legs. He sat down again. At times he pinched his hand as
though not believing in reality. He felt as though he were being
strangled by a nightmare, and as though his eyes were still
closed in a miserable feverish sleep. But, strange to say, he
did not want to wake up!

Katerina took the old cloth off the table, then opened a chest,
took out of it a sumptuous cloth embroidered in gold and
bright silks and put it on the table; then she took out of the
cupboard an old-fashioned ancestral-looking casket, set it in
the middle of the table and took out of it three silver goblets —
one for the master, one for the visitor, and one for herself; then
with a grave, almost pensive air, she looked at the old man
and at tiie visitor.

"Is one of us dear to someone, or not dear," she said. "If
anyone is not dear to someone he is dear to me, and shall drink
my goblet with me. Each of you is dear to me as my own
brother: so let us all drink to love and concord."

"Drink and drown dark fancies in the wine," said the old
man, in a changed voice. "Pour it out, Katerina."

"Do you bid me pour?" asked Katerina, looking at
Ordynov.

Ordynov held out his goblet in silence.

"Stay! If one has a secret and a fancy, may his wishes
come true!" said the old man, raising his goblet.

All cUnked their goblets and drank.

"Let me drink now with you, old man," said Katerina, turn-
ing to the landlord. "Let us drink if your heart is kindly to
me! Let us drink to past happiness, let us send a greeting to
the years we have spent, let us celebrate our happiness with
heart and with love. Bid me fill your goblet if your heart is
warm to me."

"Your wine is strong, my love, but you scarcely wet your

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lips!" said the old man, laughing and holding out his goblet
again.

"Well, I will sip it, but you drink it to the bottom . , . why
live, old man, brooding on gloomy thoughts; gloomy thoughts
only make the heart achel Thought calls for sorrow; with
happiness one can live without thinking; drink, old man," she
went on; "drown your thoughts."

"A great deal of sorrow must have fermented within you,
since you arm yourself against it like this! So you want to
make an end of it all at once, my white dove. I drink with you,
Katya! And have you a sorrow, sir, if you allow me to ask?"

"If I have, I keep it to myself," muttered Ordynov, keeping
his eyes fixed on Katerina.

"Do you hear, old man? For a long while I did not know
myself, did not remember; but the time came, I remembered
all and recalled it; all that has passed I have passed through
again in my unsatisfied soul."

"Yes, it is grievous if one begins looking into the past only,"
said the old man dreamily. "What is past is like wine that is
drunk! What happiness is there in the past? The coat is
worn out, and away with it."

"One must get a new one," Katerina chimed in with a
strained laugh, while two big tears like diamonds hung on her
eyelashes. "One cannot hve down a lifetime in one minute,
and a girl's heart is eager for life — there is no keeping pace
with it. Do you understemd, old man? Look. I have buried
my tear in your goblet."

"And did you buy much happiness with your sorrow?" said
Ordynov — and his voice quivered with emotion.

"So you must have a great deal of your own for sale,"
answered the old man, "that you put your spoke in unasked,"
and he laughed a spiteful, noiseless laugh, looking insolently
at Ordynov.

"What I have sold it for, I have had," answered Katerina
.in a voice that sounded vexed and offended. "One thinks it
much, another little. One wants to give all to take nothing,
another promises nothing and yet the submissive heart follows
^him! Do not you reproach anyone," she went on, looking
sadly at Ord3mov. "One man is like this, and another is
different, and as though one knew why the soul yearns towards
anyone! Fill your goblet, old man. Drink to the happiness
of your dear daughter, your meek, obedient slave, as I was
when first I knew you. Raise your goblet!"

300

"So be it! Fill yours, too!" said the old man, taking the
wine.

"Stay, old man! Put off drinking, and let us say a word
first! . . ."

Katerina put her elbows on the table and looked intently,
with passionate, kindling eyes, at the old man. A strange
determination gleeimed in her eyes. But all her movements
were calm, her gestures were abrupt, unexpected, rapid. She
was all as if on fire, and it was marvellous; but her beauty
seemed to grow with her emotion, her animation; her hurried
breath slightly inflating her nostrils, floated from her lips, half-
opened in a smile which showed two rows of teeth white and
even as pearls. Her bosom heaved, her coil of hair, twisted
three times round her head, fell carelessly over her left ear
and covered part of her glowing cheek, drops of sweat came out
on her temples.

"Tell my fortune, old man; tell my fortune, my father,
before you drown your mind in drink. Here is my white palm
for you — ^not for nothing do the folks call you a wizard. You
have studied by the book and know all of the black art ! Look,
old man, tell me all my pitiful fate; only mind you don't tell a
he. Come, tell me cis you know it — :will there be happiness for
your daughter, or will you not forgive her, but call down upon
her path an evil, sorrowful fate? Tell me whether I shall have
a warm comer for my home, or, like a bird of passage, shall
be seeking among good people for a home — a lonely orphan all
my life. Tell me who is my enemy, who is preparing love for
me, who is plotting against me; tell me, will my warm young
heart open its life in solitude and languish to the end, or will
it find itself a mate and beat joyfully in tune with it till new
sorrow comes! Tell me for once, old man, in what blue sky,
beyond far seas and forests, my Ijright falcon lives. And is he
keenly searching for his mate, and is he waiting lovingly, and
will he love me fondly; will he soon be tired of me, will he
deceive me or not deceive me, and, once for all and altogether,
teU me for the last time, old man, am I long to while away the
time with you, to sit in a comfortless comer, to read dark books;
and when am I, old man, to bow low to you, to say farewell
for good and all, to thank you for your bread and salt, for
giving me to drink and eat, for telling me your tales? . . . But
mind, tell all the trath, do not lie. The time has come, stand
up for yourself."

Her excitement grew greater and greater up to the last word,

301

when suddenly her voice broke with emotion as though her
heart were carried away by some inner tempest. Her eyes
flashed, and her upper Up faintly quivered. A spiteful jeer
could be heard hiding like a snake under every word, but yet
there was the ring of tears in her laughter. She bent across the
table to the old man and gazed with eager intentness into his
lustreless eyes. Ordynov heard her heart suddenly begin beat-
ing when she finished; he cried out with ecstaq^ when he
glanced at her, and was getting up from the bench. But a
flitting momentary glance from the old man riveted him to his
seat again. A strange mingling of contempt, mocking, im-
patient, angry uneasiness cind at the same time sly, spiteful
curiosity gleamed in his passing momentary glance, which
every time made Ordynov shudder and filled his heart with
annoyance, vexation and helpless anger.

Thoughtfully and with a sort of mournful curiosity the old
man looked at his Katerina. His heart was stung, words had
been uttered. But not an eyebrow stirred upon his face! He
only smiled when she finished.

"You want to know a great deal at once, my full-fledged
nestling, my fluttering bird! Better fill me a deep goblet! and
let us drink first to peace and goodwill; or I may spoil my
forecast, through someone's black evil eye. Mighty is the devil I
Sin is never far off!"

He raised his goblet and drank. The more wine he drank, the
paler he grew. His eyes burned like red coals. Evidently the
feverish light of them and the sudden deathlike blueness of his
face were signs that another fit was imminent. The wine was
strong, so that after emptying one goblet Ordynov's sight grew
more and more blurred. His feverishly inflamed blood could
bear no more : it rushed to his heart, troubled and dimmed his
reason. His uneasiness grew more and more intense. To relieve
his growing excitement, he filled his goblet and sipped it again,
without knowing what he was doing, and the blood raced even
more rapidly through his veins. He was as though in delirium,
and, straining his attention to the utmost, he could hardly
follow what was passing between his strange landlord and
landlady.

The old man knocked his goblet with a ringing sound against
the table.

"Fill it, Katerina!" he cried, "fill it again, bad daughter, fill
it to the brim ! Lay the old man in peace, and have done with
him! That's it, pour out more, pour it out, my beauty! Let

302

us drink together! Why have you drunk so little? Or have
my eyes deceived me? . . ."

Katerina made him some answer, but Ordynov could not
hear quite what she said : the old man did not let her finish;
he caught hold of her hand as though he were incapable of
restraining all that was weighing on his heart. His face was
pale, his eyes at one moment were dim, at the next were flash-
ing with fire; his lips quivered and turned white, and in an
uneven, troubled voice, in which at moments there was a flash
of strange ecstasy, he said to her —

"Give me your little hand, my beauty! Let me tell your
fortune. I wiU tell the whole truth: I am truly a wizard; so
you are not mistaken, Katerina ! Your golden heart said truly
that I alone am its wizard, and will not hide the truth from it,
the simple, girlish heart ! But one thing you don't see : it's not
for me, a wizard, to teach you wisdom I Wisdom is not what a
maiden wants, and she hears the whdie truth, yet seems not
to know, not to understand! Her head is a subtle serpent,
though her heart is melting in tears. She will find out for her-
self, will thread her way between troubles, will keep her cim-
ning will! Something she can win by sense, and where she
cannot win by sense she will dazzle by beauty, will intoxicate
men's minds with her black eye — ^beauty conquers strength,
even the heart of iron will be rent asimder! Will you have
grief and sorrow? Heavy is the sorrow of man ! but trouble is
not for the weak heart, trouble is close friends with the strong
heart; stealthily it sheds a bloody tear, but does not go begging
to good people for shameful comfort : your grief, girl, is like a
print in the sand — the rain washes it away, ttie sun dries it, the
stormy wind lifts it and blows it away. Let me tell you more,
let me tell your fortune. Whoever loves you, you will be a
slave to him, you will bind your freedom yourself, you will
give yourself in pledge and will not take yourself back, you
will not know how to cease to love in due time, you will sow
a grain and your destroyer will take back a whole ear! My
tender child, my little golden head, you buried your pearl of a
tear in my goblet, but you could not be content with that — at
once you shed a himdred; you uttered no more sweet words,
and boasted of your sad life ! And there was no need for you
to grieve over it — the tear, the dew of heaven! It will come
back to you with interest, your pearly tear, in the woeful night
when cruel sorrow, evil fancies wiU gnaw your heart — then
for that same tear another's tear will drop upon your warm

303

heart — not a warm tear but a tear of blood, like molten lead;
it will turn your white bosom to blood, and until the dreary,
heavy morning that comes on gloomy days, you will toss in
your little bed, shedding your heart's blood cind will not heal
your fresh wound till another dawn. Fill my goblet, Katerina,
fill it again, my dove; fill it for my sage counsel, and no need
to waste more words."* His voice grew weak and trembling,
sobs seemed on the point of breaking from his bosom, he
poured out the wine and greedily drained another goblet.
Then he brought the goblet down on the table again with a
bang. His dim eyes once more gleamed with flame.

"Ah! Live as you may!" he shouted; "what's past is gone
and done with. Fill up the heavy goblet, fill it up, that it may
smite the rebellious head from its shoulders, that the whole
soul may be dead with it ! Lay me out for the long night that
has no morning and let my memory vanish altogether. What
is drunk is lived and done with. So the merchant's wares have
grown stale, have lain by too long, he must give them away
for nothing! but the merchant would not of his free will have
sold it below its price. The blood of his foe should be spilt
and the innocent blood should be shed too, and that customer
should have laid down his lost soul into the bargain ! Fill my
goblet, fill it again, Katerina."

But the hand that held the goblet seemed to stiffen and did
not move; his breathing was laboured and dif&cult, his head
sank back. For the last time he fixed his lustreless eyes on
Ord5mov, but his eyes, too, grew dim at last, and his eyelids
dropped as though they were made of lead. A deadly pallor
overspread his face . . . For some time his lips twitched and
quivered as though still trjdng to articulate — and suddenly a
big hot tear hung on his eyelash, broke and slowly ran down
his pale cheek. . . .

Ordynov could bear no more. He got up and, reeling, took a
step forward, went up to Katerina and clutched her hand. But
she seemed not to notice him and did not even glance at him,
as though she did not recognise him. . . .

She, too, seemed to have lost consciousness, as though one
thought, one fixed idea had entirely absorbed her. She sank
on the bosom of the sleeping old man, twined her white arm
roxmd his neck, and gazed with glowing, feverish eyes as
though they were riveted on him. She did not seem to feel
Ordjmov taking her hand. At last she turned her head towards
him, and bent upon him a prolonged searching gaze. It seemed

304

as though at last she understood, and a bitter, astonished smile
came wearily, as it were painfully, on her lips. . . .

"Go away, go away," she whispered; "you are drunk and
wicked, you are not a guest for me . . ." then she turned
again to the old man and riveted her eyes upon him.

She seemed as it were gloating over every breath he took and
soothing his slumber with her eyes. She seemed afraid to
breathe, checking her full throbbing heart, and there was such
frenzied admiration in her face that at once despair, fury and
insatiable anger seized Ordjmov's spirit. . . .

"Katerina! Katerinal" he called, seizing her hand as
though in a vice.

A look of pain peissed over her face; she raised her head
again, and looked at him with such mockery, with such con-
temptuous haughtiness, that he could scarcely stand upon his
feet. Then she pointed to the sleeping old man and — as though
all his enemy's mockery had passed into her eyes, she bent
again a taunting glance at Ordynov that sent an icy shiver to
his heart.

"What? He will murder me, I suppose?" said Ordjmov,
beside himself with fury. Some demon seemed to whisper in
his ecir that he understood her . . . and his whole heart
laughed at Kateiina's fixed idea.

"I will buy you, my beauty, from your merchant, if you
want my soul; no fear, he won't kill me 1 . . ." A fixed laugh,
that froze Ordjmov's whole being, remained upon Katerina's
face. Its boundless irony rent his heart. Not knowing what
he was doing, hardly conscious, he leaned against the wall and
took from a naU the old man's expensive old-fashioned knife.
A look of amazement seemed to come into Katerina's face, but
at the same time anger and contempt were reflected with the
same force in her eyes. Ordjmov turned sick, looking at her
... he felt as though someone were thrusting, urging his
frenzied hand to madness. He drew out the kiufe . . .
Katerina watched him, motionless, holding her breath. . . .

He glanced at the old man.

At that moment he fancied that one of the old man's eyes
opened and looked at him, laughing. Their eyes met. For
some minutes Ordynov gazed at him fixedly. . . . Suddenly
he fancied that the old man's whole face began laughing and
timt a diabolical, soul-freezing chuckle resounded at last
through the room. A hideous, dark thought crawled like a
snake into his head. He shuddered; the knife fell from his

305

hands and dropped with a clang upon the floor. Katerina
uttered a shriek as though awaking from obUvion, from a night-
mare, from a heavy, immovable vision. . . . The old man,
very pale, slowly got up from the bed and angrily kicked the
knife into the comer of the room; Katerina stood pale, death-
like, immovable; her eyelids were closing; her face was con-
vulsed by a vague, insufferable pain; she hid her face in her
hands and, with a shriek that rent the heart, sank almost
breathless at the old man's feet. . . .

"Alyosha, Alyoshal" broke from her gasping bosom.

The old man seized her in his powwiul arms and almost
crushed her on his breast. But when she hid her head upon his
heart, every feature in the old man's face worked wifli such
undisguised, shameless laughter that Ordynov's whole soul was
overwhelmed with horror. Deception, calculation, cold, jealous
tyranny and horror at the poor broken heart — :that was what he
read in that laugh, that shamelessly threw off all disguise.

"She is mad I" he whispered, quivering like a leaf, and,
numb with terror, he ran out of the flat.

CHAPTER III

WHEN, at eight o'clock next morning, Ordynov, pale and
agitated and still dazed from the excitement of liiat day,
opened Yaroslav Ily itch's door (he went to see him though he
could not have said why) he staggered back in amazement and
stood petrified in the doorway on seeing Murin in the room.
The old man, even paler than Ordynov, seemed almost too ill
to stand up; he would not sit down, however, though Yaroslav
Ilyitch, highly delighted at the visit, invited him to do so.
Yaroslav Ilyitch, too, cried out in surprise at seeing Ordynov,
but almost at once his delight died away, and he was quite
suddenly overtaken by embarrassment l^lf-way between the
table and the chair next it. It was evident that he did not
know what to say or to do, and was fully conscious of the
impropriety of sucking at his pipe and of leaving his visitor
to his own devices at such a dif&cult moment. And yet (such
was his confusion) he did go on pulling at his pipe with all his
might and indeed with a sort of enthusiasm. Ordynov went
into the room at last. He flung a cursory glance at Murin, a
look flitted over the old man's face, something like the malicious

306

smile of the day before, which even now set Ordynov shudder-
ing with indignation. All hostiUty, however, vanished at once
and was smoothed away, and the old man's face assumed a
perfectly unapproachable and reserved air. He dropped a very
low bow to his lodger. . . . The scene brought Ordynov to
a sense of reaUty at last. Eager to understand the position of
affciirs, he looked intently at Yaroslav Ilyitch, who began to
be uneasy and flustered.

"Come in, come in," he brought out at last. "Come in,
most precious Vassily Mihalitch; honour me with your presence,
and put a stamp of ... on all these ordinary objects ..."
said Yaroslav Ilyitch, pointing towards a comer of the room,
flushing like a crimson rose; confused and angry that even his
most exalted sentences floimdered and missed fire, he moved
the chair with a loud noise into the very middle of the room.

"I hope I'm not hindering you, Yaroslav Ilyitch," said
Ordjmov. "I wanted ... for two minutes ..."

"Upon my word! As though you could hinder me, Vassily
Mihalitch; but let me offer you a cup of tea. Hey, servant. . . .
I am sure you, too, will not refuse a cup!"

Murin nodded, signifying thereby that he would not.

Yaroslav Ilyitch shouted to the servant who came in, sternly
demanded another three glasses, then sat down beside Ordynov.
For some time he turned his head like a plaster kitten to right
and to left, from Murin to Ordynov, and from Ordynov to
Murin. His position was extremely unpleasant. He evidently
wanted to say something, to his notions extremely delicate, for
one side at any rate. But for all his efforts he was totally
unable to utter a word . . . Ordynov, too, seemed in per-
plexity. There was a moment when both began speaking at
once. . . . Murin, silent, watching them both with curiosity,
slowly opened his mouth and showed all his teeth. . . .

"I've come to tell you," Ordynov said suddenly, "that,
owing to a most impleasant circimistance, I am obUged to leave
my lodging, and ..."

"Fancy, what a strange circumstance!" Yaroslav Ilyitch in-
terrupted suddenly. "I confess I was utterly astounded when
this worthy old man told me this morning of your intention.
But . . ."

"He told you," said Ordynov, looking at Murin with
surprise.

Murin stroked his beard and laughed in his sleeve.

"Yes," Yaroslav Ilyitch rejoined; "though I may have made

307

a mistake. But I venture to say for you — I can answer for it on
my honour that there was not a shadow of an3^hing derogatory
to you in this worthy old man's words. . . ."

Here Yaroslav Ilyitch blushed and controlled his emotion
with an effort. Murin, aitei enjoying to his heart's content the
discomfiture of the other two men, took a step forward.

"It is like this, your honour," he began, bowing politely to
Ordynov: "His honour made bold to take a little trouble on
your behalf. As it seems, sir^ — ^you know yourself — ^the mistress
and I, that is, we would be glad, freely and heartily, and we
would not have made bold to say a word . . . but the way
I live, you know yourself, you see for yourself, sir ! Of a truth,
the Lord barely keeps us alive, for which we pray His holy
will; else you see yourself, sir, whether it is for me to make
lamentation." Here Murin again wiped his beard with his
sleeve.

Ordynov almost turned sick.

"Yes, yes, I told you about him, mjreelf ; he is ill, that is this
nudhemr. I should ]^ke to express myself in French but, excuse
me, I don't speak French quite easily; that is . , ."

"Quite so . . ."

"Quite so, that is . . ."

Ord3mov and Yaroslav Ilyitch made each other a half bow,
each a Uttle on one side of his chair, and both covered their
confusion with an apologetic laugh. The practical Yaroslav
Ilyitch recovered at once.

"I have been questioning this honest man minutely," he
began. "He has been telling me that the illness of this
woman. . . ." Here the dehcate Yaroslav Ilyitch, probably
wishing to conceal a slight embarrassment that showed itself in
his face, hurriedly looked at Murin with inquiry.

"Yes, of our mistress ..."

The refined Yaroslav Ilyitch did not insist further.

"The mistress, that is, your former landlady; I don't know
how . . . but there ! She is an afflicted woman, you see . . .
She says that she is hindering you ... in your studies, and
he himself . . . you concealed from me one important circum-
stance, Vassily MihaUtchI"

"What?"

"About the gun," Yaroslav Ilyitch brought out, almost
whispering in the most indulgent tone with the millionth
fraction of reproach softly ringing in his friendly tenor.

"But," he added hurriedly, "he has told me all about it.

308

And you acted nobly in overlooking his involxintary wrong to
you. I swear I saw tears in his eyes."

Yaroslav Ilyitch flushed again, his eyes shone and he shifted
in hia chair with emotion.

"I, that is, we, sir, that is, your honour, I, to be sure, and
my mistress remember you in our prayers," began Murin,
addressing Ordynov and looking at him while Yaroslav Iljdtch
overcame his luibitual agitation; "and you know yourself, sir,
she is a sick, foolish woman; my legs will hardly support
me . . ."

"Yes, I am ready," Ordynov said impatiently; "please,
that's enough, I am going directly ..."

"No, that is, sir, we are very grateful for your kindness"
(Muiin made a very low bow); "that is not what I meant to
tell you, sir; I wanted to say a word — ^you see, sir, she came
to me almost from her home, that is from far, as the sa5^ng
is, beyond the seventh water — do not scorn our humble talk,
sir, we are ignorant folk — and from a tiny child she has been
like this ! A sick brain, hasty, she grew up in the forest, grew
up a peasant, aJl among bargemen and factory hands; and then
their house must bum down; her mother, sir, was burnt, her
father burnt to death — I daresay there is no knowing what
she'll tell you ... I don't meddle, but the Chir — chir-urgi-cal
Council examined her at Moscow. You see, sir, she's quite
incurable, that's what it is. I am all that's left her, and she
lives with me. We live, we pray to God and trust in the
Almighty; I never cross her in an3Hiiing."

Ordynov's face changed. Yaroslav Ilyitch looked first at
one, then at the other.

"But, that is not what I wanted to say . . . no!" Murin
corrected himself, shaking his head gravely. "She is, so to say,
such a featherhead, such a whirligig, such a loving, headstrong
creature, she's always wanting a sweetheart — ^if you will pardon
my saying so — and someone to love; it's on that she's mad. I
amuse her with fairy tales, I do my best at it. I saw, sir, how
she — ^forgive my foolish words, sir," Murin went on, bowing
cind wiping his beard with his sleeve — "how she made friends
with you; you, so to say, your excellency, were desirous to
approach her with a view to love."

Yaroslav Ilyitch flushed crimson, and looked reproachfully
at Murin. Ordynov could scarcely sit still in his seat.

"No . . . that is not it, sir ... I speak simply, sir, I am a
peasant, I am at your service. ... Of course, we are ignorant

309

folk, we are your servants, sir," he brought out, bowing low;
"and my wife and I will pray with all our hearts for your
honour. . . . What do we need? To be strong and have
enough to eat — we do not repine; but what am I to do, sir;
put my head in the noose? You know yourself, sir, what life
is and will have pity on us; but what will it be like, sir, if she
has a lover, too! . . . Forgive my rough words, sir; I am a
peasant, sir, and you are a gentleman. . . . You're a young
man, your excellency, proud and hasty, and she, you know
yourself, sir, is a little child with no sense — ^it's easy for hei
to fall into sin. She's a buxom lass, rosy and sweet, while I am
an old man always ailing. Well, the devil, it seems, has
tempted your honour. I always flatter her with fairy tales,
I do indeed; I flatter her; and how we will pray, my wife and I,
for your honour ! How we will pray I And what is she to you,
your excellency, if she is pretty? Still she is a simple woman,
an unwashed peasant woman, a foolish rustic maid, a match
for a peasant like me. It is not for a gentleman like you, sir,
to be friends with peasants! But she and I will pray to God
for your honour; how we will pray!" •

Here Murin bowed very low and for a long while remained
with his back bent, continuaJly wiping his beard with his
sleeve.

Yaroslav Il3atch did not know where he was standing.

"Yes, this good man," he observed in conclusion, "spoke to
me of some undesirable incidents; I did not venture to believe
him, Vassily Mihalitch, I heard that you were still ill," he
interrupted hurriedly, looking at Ordynov in extreme
embarrassment, with eyes full of tears of emotion.

"Yes, how much do I owe you?" Ordynov asked Murin
hurriedly.

"What are you saying, your honour? Give over. Why, we
are not Judases. Why, you are insulting us, sir, we should be
ashamed, sir. Have I and my good woman offended you?"

"But this is really strange, my good man; why, his honour
took the room from you; don't you feel that you are insulting
him by refusing?" Yaroslav Ilyitch interposed, thinking it his
duty to show Murin the strangeness and indelicacy of his
conduct.

"But upon my word, sir! What do you mean, sir? What
did we not do to please your honour? Why, we tried our very
best, we did our utmost, upon my word ! Give over, sir, give
over, yo'ir honour. Christ have mercy upon you! Why, are

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we infidels or what? You might have lived, you might have
eaten our humble fare with us and welcome; you might have
lain there — we'd have said nothing against it, and we wouldn't
have dropped a word; but the evil one tempted you. I am
an afflicted man and my mistress is afflicted — ^what is one to
do? There was no one to wait on you, or we would have been
glad, glad from our hearts. And how the mistress and I will
pray for your honour, how we will pray for you ! "

Murin bowed down from the waist. Tears came into Yaroslav
Ilyitch's delighted eyes. He looked with enthusiasm at
Ord5mov.

"What a generous trait, isn't it! What sacred hospitality is
to be found in the Russian people."

Ordynov looked wildly at Yaroslav Ilydtch.

He was almost terrified and scrutinised him from head to
foot.

"Yes, indeed, sir, we do honour hospitality; we do honour it
indeed, sir," Murin asserted, covering his beard with his whole
sleeve. "Yes, indeed, the thought just came to me; we'd have
welcomed you as a guest, sir, hy God ! we would," he went on,
approaching Ordjmov; "and I had nothing against it; another
day I would have said nothing, nothing at all; but sin is a sore
snare and my mistress is ill. Ah, if it were not for the mistress 1
Here, if I had been alone, for instance; how glad I would have
been of your honour, how I would have waited upon you,
wouldn't I have waited upon you! Whom should we respect
if not your honour? I'd have healed you of your sickness, I
know tiie art. . . . You should have been our guest, upon my
word you should, that is a great word with us! . . ."

"Yes, really; is there such an art?" observed Yaroslav
Ilyitch . . . and broke off.

Ordynov had done Yaroslav Il5ntch injustice when, just
before, he had looked him up and down witii wild amazement.

He was, of course, a very honest and honourable person, but
now he understood everything and it must be owned his
position was a very difficult one. He wanted to explode, as it
is called, with laughter ! If he had been alone with Ordynov —
two sudi friends— Yaroslav Ilyitch would, of course, have
given way to an immoderate outburst of gaiety without
attempting to control himself. He would, however, have done
this in a gentlemanly way. He would after laughing have
pressed Ordynov' s hand with feeling, would genuinely and
justly have assured him that he felt double respect for him and

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that he could make allowances in every case . . . and, of
course, would have made no reference to his youth. But as
it was, with his habitual delicacy of feeling, he was in a most
difficult position and scarcely knew what to do with
himself. . . .

"Arts, that is decoctions," Murin added. A quiver passed
over his face at Yaroslav Ilyitch's tactless exclamation. "What
I should say, sir, in my peasant foolishness," he went on,
taking einother step forward, "you've read too many books,
sir; as the Russian saying is among us peasants, 'Wit has over-
stepped wisdom.'. . ."

"Enough," said Yaroslav Ilyitch sternly.

"I am going," sdd Ord3mov. "I thank you, Yaroslav
Ilyitch. I will come, I will certainly come and see you," he
Sciid in answer to the redoubled ci-^olities of Yaroslav Ilyitch,
who was unable to detain him further. "Good-bye, good-bye."

"Good-bye, your honour, good-bye, sir; do not forget us,
visit us, poor sinners."

Ordynov heard nothing more — he went out like one dis-
traught. He could bear no more, he felt shattered, his mind
was numb, he dimly felt that he was overcome by illness, but
cold despair reigned in his soul, and he was only conscious of a
vague pain crushing, wearing, gnawing at his breast; he longed
to die at that minute. His legs were giving way under him
and he sat down by the fence, taking no notice of the passing
people, nor of the crowd that began to collect around him, nor
of the questions, nor the exclamations of the curious. But,
suddenly, in the multitude of voices, he heard the voice of
Murin above him. Ordynov raised his head. The old man
really was standing before him, his pale face was thoughtful
and dignified, he was quite a different man from the one who
had played the coarse farce at Yaroslav Ilyitch's. Ordynov got
up. Murin took his arm and led him out of the crowd. "You
want to get your belongings," he said, looking sideways at
Ordjmov. "Don't grieve, sir," cried Murin. "You are young,
why grieve? . . ."

Ordynov made no reply.

"Are you offended, sir? ... To be sure you are very angry
now . . . but you have no cause; every man guards his own
goods!"

"I don't know you," said Ordynov; "I don't want to know
your secrets. But she, she! . . ." he brought out, and the
tears rushed in streams from his eyes. The wind blew them one

312

after another from his cheeks . . . Ordynov wiped them with
his hand; his gesture, his eyes, the involuntary movement of
his blue lips all looked like madness.

"I've told you already," said Murin, knitting his brows,
"that she is crazy! What crazed her? . . . Why need you
know? But to me, even so, she is dearl I've loved her more
than my life and I'll give her up to no one. Dp you understand
now?"

There was a momentary gleam of fire in Ordynov's eyes.

"But why have I . . . ? Why have I as good as lost my
life? Why does my heart ache? Why did I know Katerina?"

"Why?" Murin laughed and pondered. "Why, I don't
know why," he brought out at last. "A woman's heart is not
as deep as the sea; you can get to know it, but it is cunning,
persistent, full of life! What she wants she must have at
once 1 You may as well know, sir, she wanted to leave me and
go away with you; she was sick of the old man, she had lived
through everj^liiing that she could Uve with him. You took her
fancy, it seems, from the first, though it made no matter
whether you or another ... I don't cross her in an3^thing —
if she asks for bird's milk I'll get her bird's milk. I'll make
up a bird if there is no such bird; she's set on her will though
she doesn't know herself what her heart is mad after. So it
has turned out that it is better in the old way! Ah, sir! yoii
are very young, your heart is^till hot like a girl forsaken, dry-
ing her tears on her sleeve ! ILet me tell you, sir, a weak man
cannot stand alone. Give him everything, he will come of
himself and give it all back; give him half the kingdoms of the
world to possess, try it and what do you think? He will hide
himself in your slipper at once — ^he will make himself so small.
Give a weak man his freedom — he will bind it himself and give
it back fo^ou. To a. foolish heart freedom is no us ^ 1 \ One can't
get on with ways like that. I just tell you all this, you are very
young! What are you to me? You've come and gone — ^you
or another, it's all the same. I knew from the first it would
be the same thing; one can't cross her, one can't say a word to
cross her if one wants to keep one's happiness; only, you know,
sir" — Murin went on with his reflections — "as the saj^ng is,
anything may happen; one snatches a knife in one's anger, or
an unarmed man will fall on you like a sheep, with his bare
hands, and tear his enemy's throat with his teeth; but let them
put the knife in your hands and your enemy bare his chest
before you — ^no fear, you'll step iack."

313

They went into the yard. The Tatar saw Murin from a
distance, took off his cap to him and stared slyly at Ordynov.

"Where's your mother? At home?" Murin shouted to him.

"Yes."

"Tell her to help him move his things, and you get away,
run along I"

They went up the stairs. The old servant, who appeared to
be reaUy the porter's mother, was getting together their lodger's
belongings and peevishly putting them in a big bundle.

"Wait a minute; I'll bring you something else of yours; it's
left in there. ..."

Murin went into his room. A minute later he came back and
gave Ordjmov a sumptuous cushion, covered with embroidery
in silks and braid, the one that Katerina had put imder his
head when he was ill.

, "She sends you this," said Murin. "And now go for good
and good luck to you; and mind now, don't hang about," he
added in a fatherly tone, dropping his voice, "or harm will
come of it."

It was evident that he did not want to ofiend his lodger, but
when he cast a last look at him, a gleam of intense malice was
unconsciously apparent in his face. Almost with repulsion he
closed the door after Ordynov.

Within two hours Ordynov had moved into the rooms of
Schpies the German. Tinchen was horrified when she saw him.
She at once asked after his health and, when she learned what
was wrong, at once did her best to muse him.

The old German showed his lodger complacently how he had
just been going down to paste a new placard on the gate,
because the rent Ordynov had peiid in advance had run out,
that very day, to the last farthing. The old man did not lose
the opportunity of commending, in a roundabout way, the
accuracy and honesty of Germans. The same day Ordynov was
taken ill, and it was three months before he could leave his bed.

Little by little he got better and began to go out. Daily life
in the German's lodgings was tranquil and monotonous. The
old man had no special characteristics: pretty Tinchen, within
the limits of propriety, was all that could be desired. But life
seemed to have lost its colour for Ordynov for ever! He
became dreamy and irritable; his impressionability took a
morbid form and he sank imperceptibly into dull, angry hypo-
chondria. His books were sometimes not opened for weeks
together. The future was closed for him, his money was being

314

spent, and he gave up all efEort, he did not even think of the
future. Sometimes his old feverish zeal for science, his old
fervour, the old visions of his own creation, rose up vividly
from the past, but they only oppressed and stifled his spiritual
energy. His mind would not ^et to work. His creative force
was at a standstill. It seemed as though all those visionary
images had grown up to giants in his imagination on purpose
to mock at the impotence of their creator. At melancholy
moments he could not help comparing himself with the
magician's pupil who, learning by stealth his master's magic
word, bade the broom bring him water and choked himself
drinking it, as he had forgotten how to say, "Stop." Possibly
a complete, original, independent idea really did exist within
him. Perhaps he had been destined to be the artist in science.
So at least he himself had believed in the past. Genuine faith
is the pledge of the future. But now at some moments he
laughed himself at his blind conviction, and — and did not take
a step forward.

Six months before, he had worked out, created and jotted
down on paj>er a sketch of a work up>on which (as he was so
young) in non-creative moments he had built his most solid
hoj>es. It was a work relating to the history of the church,
and his warmest, most fervent convictions were to find
expression in it. Now he read over that plan, made changes
in it, thought it over, read it again, looked things up and at
last rejected the idea without constructing anything fresh on its
ruins. But something akin to mysticism, to fatalism and a
belief in the mysterious began to make its way into his mind.
The luckless feUow felt his sufferings and besought God to
heal him. The German's servant, a devout old Russian woman,
used to describe with relish how her meek lodger prayed and
how he would lie for hours together as though unconscious on
the church pavement . . .

He never spoke to emyone of what had happened to him.
But at times, especially at the hour when the ^urch bells
b rough t back to lum the moment when first his heart ached and
quiverSd-vpfiE-a "feeling new to him, when he knelt beside her
in the house of God, forgetting everjrthing, and hearing nothing
but the beating of her timid heart, when with tears of ecstasy
and joy he watered the new, radiant hopes that had sprung up
in his lonely life — ^then a storm broke in his soul that was
wounded for ever; then his soul shuddered, and again the
anguish of love glowed in his bosom with scorching fire; then

315

his heart ached with sorrow and passion and his love seemed
to grow with his grief. Often for hours together, forgetting him-
self and his daily life, forgetting everything in the world, he
would sit in the same place, solitary, disconsolate; would shake
his head hopelessly and, dropping silent tears, would whisper
to himself:

"Katerina, my precious dove, my one loved sister!"

A hideous idea began to torment him more emd more, it
haunted him more and more vividly, and every day took more
probable, more actual shape before him. He fancied — and at
last he believed it fully — ^he fancied that Katerina's reason was
sovmd, but that Murin was right when he called her "a weak
heart". He fancied that some mystery, some secret, bound her
to the old man, and that Katerina, though innocent of crime as
a pure dove, Imd got into his power. Who were they? He did
not know, but he had constant visions of an immense, over-
powering despotism over a poor, defenceless creatuje, and his
heart raged and trembled in impotent indipna Hon .fHe fancied
that before the frightened eyes of her suddenly awakened soul
the idea of its degradation had been craftily presented, that the
poor weak heart had been craftily tortured, that the truth had
been twisted and contorted to her, that she had, with a
purpose, been kept blind when necessary, that the inexperienced
inclinations of her troubled passionate heart had been subtly
flattered, and by degrees the free soul had been clipt of ite
wings till it was incapable at last of resistance or of a free move-
ment towards free life . . "J

By degrees Ordynov grdw more and more unsociable and, to
..do them justice, his Germans did not hinder him in the
tendency.

He was fond of walking aimlessly about the streets. He pre-
ferred the hour of twilight, and, by choice, remote, secluded
and unfrequented places. On one rainy, unhealthy spring
evening, in one of his favourite back-lanes he met Yaroslav
Ilyitch.

Yaroslav Il)dtch was perceptibly thinner. His friendly eyes
looked dim and he looked altogether disappointed. He was
racing ofE full speed on some business of the utmost urgency,
he was wet through and muddy and, all the evening, a drop
of rain had in an almost fantastic way been hanging on his
highly decorous but now blue nose. He had, moreover, grown
whiskers.

These whiskers and the fact that Yaroslav Ilptch glanced at

316

him as though trying to avoid a meeting with an old friend
almost startled Ordynov. Strange to say, it even wounded his
heart, which had till then felt no need for sympathy. He pre-
ferred, in fact, the man as he had been — simple, kindly, naive;
speaking candidly, a little stupid, but free from all pretensions
to disiUusionment and common sense. It is unpleasant when a
foolish man whom we have once liked, just on account of his
fooUshness, suddenly becomes sensible; it is decidedly disagree-
able. However, the distrust with which he looked at Ordynov
Wcis quickly effaced.

In spite of his disillusionment he still retained his old
manners, which, as we all know, accompany a man to the
grave, and even now he eagerly tried to win Ordynov's con-
fidence. First of all he observed that he was very busy, and
then that they had not seen each other for a long time; but all
at once the conversation took a strange turn.

Yaroslav Hyitch began talking of the deceitfulness of man-
kind in general. Of the transitoriness of the blessings of this
world, of the vanity of vanities; he even made a passing
allusion to Pushkin with more than indifference, referred with
some cynicism to his acquaintances and, in conclusion, even
hinted at the deceitfulness and treachery of those who are called
friends, though there is no such thing in the world as real
friendship and never has been; in short, Yaroslav Ilyitch had
grown wise.

Ordynov did not contradict him, but he felt unutterably sad,
as though he had buried his best friend.

"Ah! fancy, I was forgetting to tell you," Yaroslav Iljdtch
began suddenly, as though recalling something very interesting.
"There's a piece of news! I'll tell you as a secret. Do you
remember the house where you lodged?"

Ordynov started and turned pale.

"Well, only fancy, just lately a whole gang of thieves was
discovered in that house; that is, would you believe me, a
regular band of brigands; smugglers, robbers of all sorts, good-
ness knows what. Some have been caught but others are still
being looked for; the sternest orders have been given. And,
can you believe it I do you remember the master of the house,
that pious, respectable, worthy-looking old man?"

"WeU?"

"What is one to think of mankind? He was the chief of
their gang, the leader. Isn't it absurd?"

Yaroslav Ilyitch spoke with feeling and judged of all man-

317

kind from one example, because Ysiroslav Ilyitch could not
do otherwise, it was his character.

"And they? Murin?" Ordynov articulated in a whisper.

"Ah! Murin, Murin I no, he was a worthy old man, quite
respectable . . . but, excuse me, you throw a new light . . . '

"Why? Was he, too, in the gang?"

Ordjmov's heart was ready to buret with impatience.

"However, as you say ..." added Yaroslav Iljdtch, fixing
his pewtery eyes on Ordynov — a sign that he was reflecting —
"Murin could not have been one of them. Just three weeks
ago he went home with his wife to their own parts ... I
learned it from the porter, that little Tatar, do you remember?

m